PRISONERS 


CAPTIVES 


LIBRARY 

UNtVfMfTY  Of 
CALIFORNIA 
•AN  MMO 


PR 
K 


/R 


PRISONERS   AND    CAPTIVES 


"A  *harp  report  broke  upon  that  echoless  silence."  Page  377. 
(FRONTISPIECE) 


PRISONERS  AND  CAPTIVES 


BY 


HENRY  SETON   MERRIMAN 

AUTHOR   OP 

'Young  Mistley,"  "The  Sowers,"  Roden's  Corner,"  etc. 


R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY    :    9  AND   n  EAST 

SIXTEENTH  STREET    :     :    NEW  YORK  CITY 

1899 


Copyright  1899 

BY 

R.  F.  KENNO  &  COMPANY 


Prisoners  and  Captives 


TO  THE  CRITIC 

ON  MY  HEARTH 


Of  Liberty,  let  Poets  sing : 

We  know  better. 
Within  the  song  there  thrills  the  ring 

Of  a  fetter. 

We  dream  a  Dream  in  early  years : 

It  goes. 
Life  is  a  tale  of  chains  and  tears, 

In  prose. 

There,  the  shade  of  a  dungeon  wall ! 

Thine. 
Here,  the  ring  of  the  gyves  that  gall  1 

Mine. 

HENRY  SETON  MERRIMAN. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAQK 

I.  Dead  Waters 9 

II.  Against  Orders 20 

III.  Home 31 

IV.  In  Brook  Street 42 

V.  A  Reunion 51 

VI.  Doubts 63 

VII.  The  "  Argo  " 72 

VIII.  In  the  City 82 

IX.  Seven  Men 92 

X.  Misgivings 103 

XI.  On  the  Track 113 

XII.  Carte  and  Tierce 122 

XIII.  A  Meeting 133 

XIV.  Brother  and  Sister 143 

XV.  Tyars  pays  a  Call 152 

XVI.  An  Explanation 161 

XVII.  The  Last  Meeting 170 

XVIII.  A  Dinner- Party 179 

XIX.  Easton  watches 189 

XX.  For  the  last  Time 199 

XXI.  Miss  Winter  moves 209 

XXII.  A  Sermon 219 

XXIII.  Miss  Winter  Diverges r 229 

XXIV.  Greek  and  Greek 238 

XXV.  Easton's  Box 246 

XXVI.  An  Emergency 255 

7 


8  Contents. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XXVII.  A  Midnight  Call 265 

XXVIII.  From  Afar 272 

XXIX.  An  Overture 281 

XXX.  Trapped 291 

XXXI.  Easton's  Care 300 

XXXII.  Easton  takes  Counsel 309 

XXXIII.  Easton  makes  a  Stand 318 

XXXIV.  And  Tyars  makes  an  Effort 327 

XXXV.  The  Eleventh  of  March 335 

XXXVI.  Off 345 

XXXVII.  A  Horrible  Task 352 

XXXVIII.  On  the  Neva 360 

XXXIX.  They  tried  it 368 

XL.  Three  Years  after 378 

XLI.  Salvage 386 


PRISONERS  AND  CAPTIVES. 


CHAPTER  I. 
DEAD  WATERS. 

THE  march  of  civilization  has  turned  its  steps  aside  from 
certain  portions  of  the  world.  Day  by  day  certain  south- 
ern waters  find  themselves  more  and  more  forsaken. 

The  South  Atlantic,  the  high-road  of  the  world  at  one 
time,  is  now  a  by-lane. 

One  afternoon,  some  years  ago,  the  copper-bright  rays 
of  a  cruel  sun  burnt  the  surface  of  the  tepid  ocean.  The 
stillness  of  the  atmosphere  was  phenomenal,  even  in  the  lat- 
itudes where  a  great  calm  reigns  from  month  to  month. 
It  is  almost  impossible  to  pr  ;sent  to  northern  eyes  this 
picture  of  a  southern  sea  gleaming  beneath  a  sun  which 
had  known  no  cloud  for  weeks ;  impossible  to  por- 
tray the  brilliant  monotony  of  it  all  with  any  degree  of 
reality  to  the  imagination  of  those  who  only  know  our 
white-flecked  heavens.  Those  who  live  up  north  in  the 
cool  "  fifties  "  can  scarcely  realize  the  state  of  an  atmos- 
phere where  the  sun  rises  day  by  day,  week  in  week  out, 
unclouded  from  the  straight  horizon  ;  sails  right  overhead, 
and  at  last  sinks  westward  undimmed  by  thinnest  vapor. 
Month  after  month,  year  after  year,  ay  !  century  after 
century,  this  day's  work  is  performed.  The  scorching 

9 


io  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

orb  of  light  rises  at  the  same  monotonous  hour  and  sets, 
just  as  he  did  when  this  world  was  one  vast  ocean,  with 
but  one  ship  sailing  on  it. 

From  the  dark  mysterious  depths  of  the  ocean  wavering 
ripples  mounting  in  radiation  to  the  surface,  broke  at 
times  the  blue  uniformity  of  its  bosom.  Occasionally  a 
delicate  nautilus  floated  along  before  some  unappreciable 
breath,  presently  to  fold  its  sails  and  disappear.  Long 
trailers  of  seaweed  floating  idly  almost  seemed  to  be  en. 
dowed  with  a  sinuous  life  and  movement. 

No  bird  in  the  air,  no  fish  in  the  sea  !  Nothing  to  break 
the  awful  silence  !  A  wreck  might  float  and  drift,  here 
or  there,  upon  these  aimless  waters  for  years  together  and 
never  be  found. 

But  Chance,  the  fickle,  ruled  that  two  vessels  should 
break  the  monotony  of  sea  and  sky  on  this  particular 
afternoon,  as  I  have  said,  some  years  ago.  One,  a  mighty 
structure,  with  tall  tapering  masts,  perfect  in  itself,  an 
ideal  merchantman.  The  other,  small,  of  exquisite 
yacht-like  form,  and  with  every  outward  sign  of  a  great 
speed  obtainable. 

There  was  obviously  something  amiss  with  the  larger 
vessel.  Instead  of  white  sails  aloft  on  every  spar,  bare 
poles  and  slack  ropes  stood  nakedly  against  the  blue  ether. 
In  a  region  of  calms  and  light  winds  the  merchantman  had 
only  her  topsails  set. 

In  contrast  the  other  carried  every  foot  of  canvas. 
Carried  it  literally  ;  for  the  white  cloth  hung  mostly  idle, 
only  at  times  flapping  softly  to  a  breath  of  air  that  was 
not  felt  on  deck.  Even  this  was  sufficient  to  move  the 
little  vessel  through  the  water,  which  rippled  past  her 
copper-sheathed  bows  in  long  unctuous  streamers.  With 
her  tremendous  spread  of  canvas  the  merchantman  might 
perhaps  have  made  a  little  weigh,  but  under  heavy  topsails 


Dead  Waters.  II 

she  lay  like  a  log.  Since  dawn  the  smaller  vessel  had 
been  steadily,  though  very  slowly,  decreasing  the  distance 
between  them,  and  now  there  were  signs  of  activity  on 
her  deck,  as  though  a  boat  were  about  to  be  lowered. 
Across  the  silent  waters  trilled  the  call  of  a  boatswain's 
whistle,  but  this  confirmation  would  have  been  unneces- 
sary to  the  veriest  tyro  in  nautical  matters.  The  vessel 
was  plainly  a  man-of-war.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was 
one  of  the  quick-sailing  schooners  built  and  designed  by 
the  British  Government  for  the  suppression  of  slave-trade 
on  the  West  Coast  of  Africa. 

Every  knob  of  brass  gleamed  in  the  sun,  every  inch  of 
deck  was  holystoned  as  white  as  milk.  Aloft  no  rope 
was  frayed,  no  seizing  adrift.  It  was  easy  to  see  that 
this  trim  vessel  carried  a  large  crew  under  strict  discipline  ; 
and  in  that  monotonous  life  the  very  discipline  must  itself 
have  been  a  relief. 

And  now  the  melodious  song  of  sailors  hauling  together, 
floated  through  the  glittering  air  to  the  great  vessel  of  the 
dead.  No  answering  cry  was  heard — no  expectant  faces 
peered  over  the  black  bulwarks.  The  signal  flags,  "  Do 
you  want  help  ?  "  hung  unnoticed,  unanswered,  from  the 
mast  of  the  little  vessel.  The  scene  was  suggestive  of 
that  fable  telling  of  a  mouse  proffering  aid  to  a  lion.  The 
huge  still  merchantman  could  have  taken  the  slave-catcher 
upon  its  broad  decks. 

Presently  a  boat  left  the  smaller  vessel  and  skimmed 
over  the  water,  impelled  by  sharp  regular  strokes.  The 
sound  of  the  oars  alone  broke  the  silence  of  nature. 

In  the  stern  of  the  boat  sat  a  square-shouldered  little 
man,  whose  brown  face  and  glistening  chestnut  beard, 
close-cropped  to  a  point,  were  pleasantly  suggestive  of 
cleanly  English  refinement,  combined  with  a  readiness  of 
resource  and  a  cheery  equanimity  which  are  learnt  more 


12  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

readily  on  British  decks  than  elsewhere.  His  pleasant 
eyes  were  scarcely  hazel,  and  yet  could  not  be  described 
as  gray,  because  the  two  colors  were  mixed.  The  clean 
curve  of  his  nose  was  essentially  of  Devonshire  origin. 

As  the  boat  approached  the  great  merchantman,  this 
officer  formed  his  two  hands  into  a  circle  and  raised  his 
practised  voice. 

"  Ahoy— there  !  " 

There  was  no  reply,  and  a  moment  or  two  later  the 
small  boat  swung  in  beneath  the  high  bulwarks.  There 
was  a  rope  hanging  almost  to  the  water,  and  after  testing 
its  powers,  with  a  quick  jerk  the  young  fellow  scrambled 
up  the  ship's  side  like  a  monkey.  Three  of  the  boat's 
crew  prepared  to  follow  him. 

He  sat  for  a  moment  balanced  on  the  blistered  rail,  and 
then  leaped  lightly  down  on  to  the  deck.  This  was  of  a 
light  green,  for  moss  had  grown  there  in  wet  weather  only 
to  be  parched  by  a  subsequent  sun.  Between  the  planks 
the  pitch  had  oozed  up  and  glistened  like  jet,  in  some 
places  the  seasoned  wood  had  warped. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  alone  amidst  the  tangled  ropes, 
and  there  were  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  brown  fore- 
head. It  is  no  pleasant  duty  to  board  a  derelict  ship,  for 
somewhere  or  other  there  will  probably  be  an  unpleasant 
sight,  such  as  is  remembered  through  the  remainder  of 
the  beholder's  life. 

There  was  something  crude  and  hard  in  the  entire  pic- 
ture— a  cynical  contrast,  such  as  a  Frenchman  loves  to 
put  upon  his  canvas.  In  the  merciless,  almost  shadowless, 
light  of  a  midday  sun  every  detail  stood  out  in  hard  out- 
line. The  perfect  ship,  with  its  forlorn,  bedraggled  deck  ; 
the  clean  spars  towering  up  into  the  heavens,  with  their 
loose  cordage,  their  clumsily-furled  sails  ;  and  upon  the 
moss-grown  deck  this  square-shouldered  little  officer — 


Dead  Waters.  13 

trim,  seaman-like,  prompt  amidst  the  universal  slackness 
— the  sun  gleaming  on  his  white  cap  and  gilt  buttons. 

While  he  stood  for  a  moment  hesitating,  he  heard  a 
strange,  unknown  sound.  It  was  more  like  the  rattle  in  a 
choking  man's  throat  than  anything  else  that  he  could 
think  of.  He  turned  quickly,  and  stood  gazing  upon  the 
saddest  sight  he  had  yet  seen  in  all  his  life.  Over  the 
tangled  ropes  the  gaunt  figure  of  a  white  dog  was  creeping 
towards  him.  This  poor  dumb  brute  was  most  piteous  and 
heartrending  ;  for  the  very  dumbness  of  its  tongue  endowed 
its  bloodshot  staring  eyes  with  a  heaven-born  eloquence. 

As  it  approached  there  came  from  its  throat  a  repetition 
of  the  sickening  crackle.  The  young  officer  stooped  over 
it  with  kindly  word  and  caress.  Then,  and  then  only, 
did  he  realize  that  the  black  and  shriveled  object  hanging 
from  its  open  lips  was  naught  else  but  the  poor  brute's 
tongue.  This  was  more  like  a  piece  of  dried-up  leather 
than  living  flesh. 

"  Water !  "  said  the  officer  quickly  to  the  man  climbing 
over  the  rail  behind  him. 

Some  moments  elapsed  before  the  small  beaker  was 
handed  up  from  the  boat,  and  during  these  the  officer 
moistened  his  finger  at  his  own  lips,  touching  the  dog's 
tongue  tenderly  and  skilfully. 

"  Look  after  the  poor  brute,"  he  said  to  the  man,  who 
at  length  brought  the  water.  "  Don't  give  him  too  much 
at  first." 

A  slight  feeling  of  relief  had  come  over  them  all.  For 
some  reason,  they  concluded,  the  vessel  had  been  aban- 
doned, and  in  the  hurry  of  departure  the  dog  had  been 
left  behind. 

With  a  lighter  step  he  walked  aft,  and  climbed  the 
brass-bound  companion-ladder  leading  to  the  raised  poop, 
while  two  of  the  boat's  crew  followed  upon  his  heels. 


14  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

Upon  the  upper  deck  he  stopped  suddenly,  and  the 
color  left  his  lips.  His  face  was  so  sunburnt  that  no  other 
change  was  possible.  Thus  the  three  men  stood  in  si- 
lence. There,  at  the  wheel,  upon  an  ordinary  kitchen- 
chair,  sat  a  man.  His  two  hands  clutched  the  brass- 
bound  spokes  ;  his  head  lay  prone  upon  his  arms.  A 
large  Panama  hat  completely  hid  his  features,  and  the 
wide  graceful  brim  touched  his  bent  shoulders. 

As  the  stately  vessel  slowly  rocked  upon  the  glassy 
sweep  of  rolling  wave — the  echo  of  some  far-off  storm 
in  other  waters — the  great  wheel  jerked  from  side  to  side, 
swaying  the  man's  body  with  it.  From  one  muscular 
arm  the  shirt-sleeve  had  fallen  back,  displaying  sinews 
like  cords  beneath  the  skin.  Here  was  Death  steering 
a  dead  ship  through  lifeless  waters. 

And  yet  in .  the  dramatic  picture  there  was  a  strange 
sense  of  purpose.  The  man  was  lashed  to  the  chair.  If 
life  had  left  him,  this  lonely  mariner  had  at  least  fought  a 
good  fight.  Beneath  the  old  Panama  hat  an  unusual  brain 
had  at  one  time  throbbed  and  planned  and  conceived  a 
purpose.  This  was  visible  in  the  very  simplicity  of  his 
environments,  for  he  was  at  least  comfortable.  Some  bis- 
cuits lay  upon  the  grating  beside  him — there  was  bunting 
on  the  seat  and  back  of  the  chair — while  the  rope  loosely 
knotted  round  his  person  seemed  to  indicate  that  sleep, 
and  perhaps  death,  had  been  provided  for  and  foreseen. 

Gently  and  with  excusable  hesitation  the  English  naval 
officer  raised  the  brim  of  the  large  hat  and  displayed  the 
face  of  a  living  man.  There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it. 
The  strong  British  face  bore  the  signs  of  perfect  health — 
the  brown  hair  and  closely-cropped  beard  were  glossy  with 
life. 

"  He's  asleep  !  "  whispered  one  of  the  sailors — a  young 
man  who  had  not  known  discipline  long. 


7*5 


"  V.'lth  hesitation  the  officer  raised  the  brim  of  the  large  hat."     Page  14. 


Dead  Waters.  15 

This  statement,  if  informal,  was  at  least  correct ;  for 
the  steersman  of  the  great  vessel  was  peacefully  slumber- 
ing, alone  on  an  abandoned  ocean,  beneath  the  blaze  of 
an  equatorial  sun. 

"  Hulloa,  my  man  !  Wake  up  !  "  called  out  the  young 
officer,  clapping  the  sleeper  on  the  back. 

The  effect  was  instantaneous.  The  sleeper  opened  his 
eyes  and  rose  to  his  feet  simultaneously,  releasing  him- 
self from  the  rope  which  was  hitched  over  the  back  of  his 
chair.  Despite  ragged  shirt  and  trousers,  despite  the  old 
Panama  hat  with  its  limp  brim,  despite  bare  feet  and  tarry 
hands,  there  was  something  about  this  sailor  which  placed 
him  on  a  par — not  with  the  able-seamen  standing  open- 
mouthed  before  him — but  with  the  officer.  These  social 
distinctions  are  too  subtle  for  most  of  us.  We  can  feel 
them,  but  to  explain  is  beyond  us.  We  recognize  a  gentle- 
man, but  we  can  in  no  wise  define  one.  One  may  meet 
a  gentleman  in  the  forecastle  of  a  coasting  schooner,  but 
he  would  be  sadly  out  of  place  in  a  ball-room.  Again  the 
spurious  article  is  to  be  found  in  a  ball-room,  and  he  would 
still  be  a  cad  had  his  lines  been  cast  in  the  forecastle  of  a 
coasting-schooner. 

This  sailor's  action  was  perfectly  spontaneous  and 
natural  as  he  faced  the  officer.  It  was  an  unconscious 
assertion  of  social  equality. 

"An  English  officer !  "  he  exclaimed,  holding  out  his 
hand.  "  1  am  glad  to  see  the  uniform  again." 

The  small  man  nodded  his  head  without  speaking,  but 
he  grasped  the  brown  hand  somewhat  ceremoniously.  The 
form  of  greeting  was  also  extended  to  the  two  seamen  by 
the  ragged  sailor. 

"  Are  you  in  command  of  this  vessel  ?  "  inquired  Lieu- 
tenant Grace,  looking  round  critically. 

"  I  am — at  present.    I  shipped  as  second  mate,  but 


1 6  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

have  now  the  honor  of  being  captain  .  .  .  crew  .  .  .  and 
.  .  .  bottle-washer." 

The  men  moved  away,  looking  about  them  curiously. 
The  younger  made  for  the  deck-house,  seeking  the  com- 
panion-way below. 

"  Halloa !  "  exclaimed  the  solitary  mariner,  "  where 
are  your  men  going  to  ?  Hold  hard  there,  you  fellows  ! 
Let  me  go  down  first." 

The  stoutly-built  little  officer  held  up  a  warning  hand  to 
his  men,  which  had  the  effect  of  stopping  abruptly  their 
investigations.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  keenly  into 
his  companion's  face.  The  glance  was  returned  with  the 
calm  speculation  of  a  man  who  had  not  yet  found  his  moral 
match. 

"  Yellow  fever  ?  "  interrogated  Grace. 

"Yellow  fever,"  answered  the  other,  with  a  short 
nod: 

"  I  ain't  afeerd  of  Yellow  Jack  !  "  said  one  of  the  sea- 
men who  had  approached. 

"  That  I  can  quite  well  believe,  but  it  is  useless  to  run 
an  unnecessary  risk.  I  will  go  first." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  led  the  way,  and 
the  young  officer  followed  closely.  The  latter  was  vaguely 
conscious  of  a  certain  strain  in  this  man's  manner,  as  if 
his  nerves  were  at  an  undue  tension.  His  eyes  were  those 
of  a  person  overwrought  in  mind  or  body,  and  Lieutenant 
Grace  watched  him  very  keenly. 

At  the  head  of  the  companion-ladder  the  sailor  stopped. 

"  What  is  to-day  ?  "  he  inquired,  abruptly. 

"Thursday." 

"Ah!" 

They  were  standing  close  together,  and  the  short  man 
looked  up  uneasily  into  his  companion's  face. 

"  Why  do  you  inquire  ?  "  he  said,  gently. 


Dead  Waters.  17 

"  It  was  Tuesday  when  I  lashed  myself  to  that  chair. 
I  must  have  been  sleeping  forty-eight  hours." 

"  And  you  have  had  no  food  since  then  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  really  cannot  tell  you.  I  remember 
taking  the  wheel  at  midday  on  Tuesday  ;  since  then  I 
don't  exactly  know  what  I  have  done." 

The  little  officer  had  a  peculiar  way  of  looking  at 
persons  who  were  addressing  him.  It  gave  one  the 
impression  that  he  was  searching  for  a  fuller  mean- 
ing in  the  eyes  than  that  vouchsafed  by  the  tongue 
alone. 

He  made  no  reply,  but  stepping  closer  to  his  companion 
he  placed  his  arm  around  him. 

"  You  are  a  little  overdone,"  he  said.  "  I  imagine  you 
have  been  too  long  without  food.  Just  sit  down  on  these 
steps  and  I  will  get  you  something." 

The  other  man  smiled  in  a  peculiar  way  and  put  the 
proffered  arm  aside  in  such  a  manner  as  to  remove  any 
suspicion  of  ridicule  at  the  idea  of  aid  coming  from  such  a 
quarter. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  answered,  "  I  am  all  right.  It  is  just  a 
little  giddiness — the  effect  of  this  hot  sun,  no  doubt. 
There  is  some  brandy  down  below.  I  am  a  great  believer 
in  brandy." 

He  had  descended  the  brass-bound  steps,  and  as  he 
spoke  the  last  words  he  led  the  way  into  the  saloon.  A 
sail  had  been  cast  over  the  open  skylight,  so  that  the  full 
glare  of  day  failed  to  penetrate  into  the  roomy  cabin. 
Upon  the  oilcloth-covered  table  lay  a  rolled  sheet  of 
brown  paper  in  the  rough  form  of  a  torch,  and  beside  it  a 
box  of  matches. 

"I  burn  brown  paper,"  said  the  sailor,  quietly,  as  he 
struck  a  light  and  ignited  the  paper — "it  is  the  only  disin- 
fectant I  have  left." 
2 


1 8  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  By  God — you  need  it !  "  exclaimed  the  officer  in  his 
handkerchief. 

In  the  meantime  the  other  had  advanced  farther  into  the 
cabin.  Upon  the  floor,  beyond  the  table,  with  their  heads 
resting  upon  the  hatch  of  the  lazarette,  lay  two  men 
whose  forms  were  distinguishable  beneath  the  dusky 
sheets  cast  over  them. 

"  Those  are  the  last  of  nineteen,"  said  the  ragged  man, 
waving  aside  the  acrid  smoke.  "  I  have  buried  seventeen 
myself — and  nursed  nineteen.  That  is  the  steward,  this 
the  first  mate.  They  quarreled  when  they  were  .  .  . 
alive.  It  seems  to  be  made  up  now  ...  eh  ?  I  did  my 
best,  but  the  more  I  got  to  know  of  yellow  fever  the 
greater  was  my  respect  for  it.  I  nursed  them  to  the  best 
of  my  knowledge,  and  then  I  ...  played  parson." 

He  pointed  to  an  open  Bible  lying  on  the  floor,  and  a 
ghastly  grin  flickered  across  his  face. 

The  little  officer  was  watching  him  with  that  peculiar 
and  continuous  scrutiny  which  has  already  been  noticed. 
He  barely  glanced  at  the  Bible  or  at  the  still  forms  beneath 
the  unwashed  sheet.  All  his  attention  was  concentrated 
upon  the  survivor. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  deliberately,  "  if  you  will  kindly 
go  on  board  the  Foam,  I  shall  take  charge  of  this  ship." 

"  Eh  ? " 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  It  is  rather  a  difficult 
task  for  a  small  man  to  look  up  into  a  face  that  is  consid- 
erably above  him,  with  a  continued  dignity,  but  this 
square-shouldered  representative  of  British  Majesty  ac- 
complished it  with  undoubted  success. 

"  I  take  command  of  the  ship,"  he  said,  soothingly ; 
"  you  are  only  fit  for  the  sick-list." 

Across  the  long  and  sunken  face  there  gleamed  again  an 
unpleasant  smile — a  mere  contraction  of  the  features,  for 


Dead  Waters.  19 

the  eyes  remained  terribly  solemn.  Then  he  looked 
round  the  cabin  in  a  dreamy  way  and  moved  towards  the 
base  of  the  mizzenmast. 

•  "I  have  navigated  her  almost  single-handed  for  a  fort- 
night," he  said  ;  "  I  am  .  .  .  glad  you  came." 
Then  the  officer  led  him  away  from  the  cabin. 


2O  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AGAINST  ORDERS. 

THIS  is  no  record  of  horrors.  It  is  not  my  intention  to 
expatiate  upon  the  interior  of  a  fever-stricken  ship,  found 
in  the  midst  of  a  torrid  ocean.  There  are  many  of  us  who 
seem  to  labor  under  the  impression  that  in  telling  our 
woes,  detailing  our  sorrows  and  describing  such  unpleasant 
sights  as  have  come  before  us,  we  are  in  some  vague  way 
fulfilling  a  social  duty.  But  upon  reflection  it  will  appear 
manifest  that  the  love  of  notoriety  which  is  in  these  days 
more  than  ever  prominent  among  human  motives,  has  a 
great  share  in  the  work  of  beneficence.  For  instance,  I 
take  absolutely  no  interest  in  the  death-bed  scene  of  the 
late  spouse  of  my  washerwoman,  but  that  afflicted  female 
never  fails  to  seize  such  opportunities  as  present  them- 
selves to  detail  most  harrowing  incidents  of  such  a  nature. 
She  is  an  intelligent  woman,  and  it  seems  scarcely  prob- 
able that  she  should  imagine  me  to  be  greatly  interested  or 
impressed — therefore  one  is  forced  to  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  her  motive  is  simply  to  demonstrate  that  by 
reason  of  her  sorrows  she  is  quite  different  from  other 
slaves  of  the  wash-tub.  Even  in  the  laundry  the  love  of 
notoriety  hovers  in  the  atmosphere. 

It  is,  however,  questionable  whether  that  fame  which 
might  attach  itself  to  the  display  of  an  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  horrors  and  revulsions  of  yellow  fever  is  worth 
striving  after ;  and  it  is  quite  certain  that  no  man, 


Against  Orders.  21 

woman,  or  child  is  the  better  for  the  perusal  of  such 
matters. 

Among  the  many  peculiar  characteristics  of  the  genera- 
tion ornamented  by  ourselves,  there  is  a  growing  love  for 
the  investigation  of  the  seamy  side.  Young  girls  seek 
realism  in  hospitals,  young  men  read  and  write  realistic 
books.  Now,  this  so-called  realism  is  no  new  thing.  It 
was  there  when  the  Psalms  were  written,  but  in  those 
days  writers  and  poets  had  the  good  taste  and  the  wisdom 
to  slur  over  it. 

Nor  is  this  a  seafaring  record.  The  good  ship  Martial 
has  been  introduced  here  because  her  deck  was  the  meet- 
ing-place of  two  men,  whose  lives  having  hitherto  been 
cast  in  very  different  places,  drifted  at  last  together  upon 
the  broad  waters  in  precisely  the  same  aimless,  incompre- 
hensible way  that  the  two  vessels  found  each  other  upon 
the  breathless  ocean. 

In  life  as  in  the  Gulf  of  Guinea  there  are  many  currents 
drawing  us  back  when  the  wind  is  fair,  urging  us  insen- 
sibly onwards  when  we  think  our  progress  slow  ;  and  like 
ships  upon  the  sea  we  drift  together,  and  in  the  night-time 
lose  each  other  again  without  definite  rhyme  or  reason. 

From  the  moment  that  the  ragged  steersman  opened  his 
mournful  gray  eyes  and  looked  upon  the  sunburnt  face  of 
Lieutenant  Grace,  he  had  felt  himself  insensibly  drawn 
towards  his  rescuer.  This  feeling  was  not  the  mere  sense 
of  gratitude  which  was  naturally  awakened,  but  something 
stronger.  It  was  almost  a  conviction  that  this  chance  meet- 
ing on  the  deck  of  a  fever-stricken  ship  was  something 
more  than  an  incident.  It  was  a  beginning — the  begin- 
ning of  a  new  influence  upon  his  life. 

When  Grace  laid  his  sunburnt  hand  upon  the  sleeper's 
shoulder  he  had  felt  pleasantly  conscious  of  a  contact  which 
had  further  import  than  mere  warm  flannel  and  living 


22  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

muscle.  It  was  distinctly  sympathetic  in  its  influence, 
for  there  is  a  meaning  in  touch.  All  hands  are  not  the 
same  within  the  grasp  of  our  fingers. 

As  the  two  men  emerged  on  deck  the  officer  turned  to- 
wards his  companion. 

"  In  another  hour,"  he  said,  "  that  small  dog  would  have 
been  dead." 

"  Ah  !  you've  saved  him  ?  "  exclaimed  the  other,  with 
a  sudden  change  of  manner — a  change  which  the  first 
speaker  had  in  some  degree  expected.  They  were  be- 
ginning to  understand  each  other,  these  two,  for  sailors 
soon  read  the  hearts  of  men  ;  and  it  will  be  generally  found 
that  he  who  loves  a  dog  is  the  first  to  discover  a  similar 
love  in  the  heart  of  another. 

"  Yes  !     He  will  recover.     I  know  dogs." 

"  He's  had  no  water  since  Tuesday." 

"  He  looked  rather  like  it.  Tell  me — do  you  feel  better 
after  that  brandy  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  thanks,"  replied  the  big  man  with  a  slow 
smile. 

"  Come,  then.  We  will  go  on  board  my  ship  and  re- 
port to  the  old  man,  while  you  get  a  meal — some  soup  I 
should  think  will  be  best.  You  will  have  to  be  careful." 

He  led  the  way  aft,  towards  the  rail  where  the  men, 
having  found  a  rope-ladder,  were  lowering  it  over  the  side. 
Before  reaching  them  he  turned. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  what  Is  your 
name  ?  " 

"  Tyars— Claud  Tyars." 

"  Claud  Tyars,"  repeated  the  little  officer  musingly,  as 
if  searching  in  his  mind  for  some  recollection.  "  There 
was  a  Tyars  in  the  Cambridge  boat  two  years  ago — a 
Trinity  man." 

"  Yes — there  was." 


Against  Orders.  23 

Lieutenant  Grace  looked  up  in  his  singular,  searching 
way. 

"You  are  the  man  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  man." 

With  a  little  nod  the  young  officer  continued  his  way. 
They  did  not  speak  again  until  they  were  seated  in  the 
gig  on  the  way  towards  the  Foam. 

"  I  had  a  cousin,"  the  officer  remarked  then  in  a  cheer- 
fully conversational  manner,  "  at  Cambridge.  He  would 
be  a  contemporary  of  yours.  My  name  is  Grace." 

The  rescued  man  acknowledged  this  neat  introduction 
with  a  grave  nod. 

"  I  remember  him  well,"  he  replied.  "  A  great  mathe- 
matician." 

"I  believe  he  was,"  answered  Grace.  He  was  look- 
ing towards  his  ship,  which  was  now  near  at  hand.  The 
crew  were  grouped  amidships,  peering  over  the  rail,  while 
a  tall  old  man  on  the  quarterdeck,  stopping  in  his  medita- 
tive promenade  occasionally,  watched  their  approach  with 
the  aid  of  a  pair  of  marine  glasses. 

"  The  skipper  is  on  the  lookout  for  us,"  continued  the 
young  officer  in  a  low  tone  of  voice  requiring  no  reply. 

"  A  slaver  ?  "  inquired  Tyars,  following  the  direction 
of  his  companion's  eyes. 

"  Yes  ;  a  slaver,  and  the  quickest  ship  upon  the  coast." 

Propelled  by  strong  and  willing  arms  the  boat  soon 
reached  the  yacht-like  vessel,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Claud 
Tyars  was  repeating  his  story  to  her  captain — a  genial, 
white-haired,  red-faced  old  sailor. 

Lieutenant  Grace  was  present,  and  certain  entries 
were  made  in  the  log-book.  The  two  servants  of  her 
Majesty  were  prompt  and  businesslike  in  their  questions. 
Tyars  had  taken  the  precaution  of  bringing  the  log-book 
of  the  Martial,  in  which  the  deaths  of  the  whole  crew 


24  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

excepting  himself  were  faithfully  recorded.  The  pro- 
ceedings were  ship-shape  and  businesslike,  but  as  the 
story  progressed  the  old  commander  became  more  and 
more  interested,  to  the  detriment  of  his  official  punctilio. 
When  at  last  Tyars  finished  his  narrative  with  the 
words — 

"And  this  afternoon  Lieutenant .  Grace  found  me 
asleep  on  the  wheel,"  the  old  sailor  leant  forward  across 
the  little  cabin-table,  and  extended  an  unsteady,  curved 
hand. 

"  Your  hand,  sir.  I  should  like  to  take  by  the  hand  a 
man  with  such  a  record  as  yours.  You  have  done  a  won- 
derful thing  in  navigating  that  ship  almost  single-handed 
as  far  as  this.  In  nursing  the  poor  fellows  you  have  acted 
with  the  tenderness  of  a  woman  ;  in  the  management  of 
your  ship  you  have  proved  yourself  a  good  sailor,  and  in 
your  marvelous  pluck  you  have  shown  yourself  an  English 
gentleman — for  such  I  think  you  must  be,  though  you 
shipped  as  second  mate  of  a  merchantman." 

Tyars  took  the  proffered  hand,  smiling  his  slow,  un- 
consciously mournful  smile. 

"  But,"  he  said,  calmly  ignoring  the  interrogation  of 
the  old  man's  glance,  "  you  must  not  give  me  the  whole 
credit.  There  are  other  records  as  good  as  mine,  but 
they  are  finished,  and  so  the  interest  suffers.  Some  of 
the  men  behaved  splendidly.  One  poor  fellow  actually 
dropped  dead  at  the  wheel,  refusing  to  go  below  until  it 
was  too  late.  He  knew  it  was  hopeless,  but  he  took  a 
peculiar  sort  of  pride  in  dying  with  his  fingers  round  the 
spokes.  There  was  only  one  coward  on  board,  and  I  am 
glad  to  say  he  was  not  an  Englishman." 

"  Now,  what  was  he  ?  "  asked  the  old  sailor,  who,  being 
of  a  school  almost  extinct  to-day,  upheld  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race  far  above  all  other  nations. 


Against  Orders.  25 

"  That  is  hardly  a  fair  question,"  interposed  the  more 
modern  first  officer. 

"  A  German,"  answered  Tyars,  shortly. 

Then  the  young  surgeon  of  the  Foam  appeared  and  took 
charge  of  his  second  patient ;  for  the  terrier  "  Muggins  " 
had,  by  Tyars'  request,  been  attended  to  first. 

In  the  quiet  days  that  followed,  the  rescued  man  and 
his  dog  recovered  from  the  effects  of  their  hardship  with 
wonderful  rapidity.  Youth  is  the  greatest  healer  of 
wounds,  fatigue,  or  hardship  that  the  frame,  human  or 
canine,  can  well  desire,  and  in  this  matter  Muggins  had  a 
decided  disadvantage  of  his  master.  He  was  older  as  a 
dog  than  Tyars  as  a  man  ;  moreover  his  hardships  had 
been  greater,  for  thirst  is  a  terrible  enemy  and  leaves 
his  mark  deep-sunken.  It  is  not  for  us  to  say  that  the 
man  suffered  mentally,  which  the  dog  could  not  do. 
Tyars  had  passed  through  a  most  trying  period,  but  Provi- 
dence had  chosen  to  place  within  his  broad  chest  a  heart 
semi-indifferent,  semi-stubborn — the  hard  heart  of  a  fear- 
less man.  In  his  place  nine  out  of  ten  would  have  lost 
their  reason  ;  Grace  found  him  as  nearly  hysterical  as  a 
strong  will  could  well  be. 

Many  there  are  who  will  say  that  Muggins  escaped 
this,  that  his  hardships  were  purely  physical.  Some 
would  perhaps  go  so  far  as  to  assert  that  he  could  in  no 
way  participate  in  the  gloom  of  the  stricken  crew — that  to 
his  unreasoning  mind  the  melancholy  ceremonies  that  took 
place  almost  daily  on  the  main  deck,  were  of  no  greater 
import  than  the  discharge  of  cargo  over  the  ship's  side. 
All  that  there  is  to  record  is  that  he  attended  every 
funeral,  standing  gravely  by  the  ship's  bulwark,  with  his 
strong  lithe  legs  trembling  perceptibly.  Nor  did  he  after 
the  ominous  splash  scamper  aft  with  a  cheery  bark  to 
peer  out  under  the  stem-rail,  as  he  did  when  the  steward 


26  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

threw  away  his  refuse.  I  think  Muggins  knew  what  the 
roughly-sewn  canvas  hid  from  view.  It  is  my  opinion, 
that  as  the  great  ship  glided  slowly  forward  through  the 
becalmed  waters,  sowing  in  her  wake  the  grains  of  that 
human  seed  which  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  delights  to  cast 
abroad  in  many  strange  places,  the  dog  knew  that  the 
hand  of  God  was  upon  the  good  merchantman  Martial. 
I  believe  that  he,  in  his  dumb  way,  fought  his  small  fight 
among  the  men  fighting  their  greater  battles  ;  reasoning  in 
his  lesser  way,  and  trusting,  as  bravely  as  they  trusted, 
that  a  better  time  was  coming. 

Muggins  was  naturally  of  a  grave  and  thoughtful  habit, 
inclining  perhaps  to  melancholy  during  the  morning  hours, 
when  his  so-called  betters  are  equally  liable  to  pensiveness. 
In  his  life  there  had  been  a  great  break,  and  it  is  just 
possible  that  his  sadness  of  demeanor  was  to  be  ascribed 
in  some  degree  to  dyspeptic  symptoms.  No  dog  had  re- 
joiced more  thankfully  in  ratty  sedges,  in  succulent 
grasses,  and  other  botanical  delicacies  ;  and  now  behold ! 
he  was  a  seafarer.  This  had  been  the  break  in  his  life. 
Although  he  accepted  the  sea  and  its  privations  with  the 
philosophic  calm  inherent  in  all  bull-terriers,  he  made  no 
pretensions  to  being  a  sailor.  He  could  not  bring  himself 
to  contemplate  the  Martial  as  other  than  a  mere  convey- 
ance. Her  deck-work  and  cabin  fittings  possessed  in  their 
familiarity  no  homelike  sympathy ;  and  in  bad  weather, 
life  from  Muggins'  sea-water-ridden  point  of  view  was 
hardly  worth  the  living. 

It  was  true  that  he  had  met  many  pleasant  companions 
on  board,  men  who  did  not  hesitate  to  give  him  the  softer 
corners  of  their  daily  biscuits,  and  possessed  no  squeamish 
doubts  about  allowing  him  to  lick  out  their  meat-kids  on 
Sundays,  when  Australian  mutton  took  the  place  of  salt 
victuals.  But  he  held  little  to  mere  friendship  with  man  or 


Against  Orders.  27 

dog,  for  all  his  love  was  centered  on  one  being — all  his 
social  eggs  were  in  one  basket.  It  is  therefore  excusable 
that  this  dog  should  find  himself  most  comfortable  on 
board  the  Foam,  where  his  welfare  was  attended  to  by  a 
devoted  doctor,  and  all  the  crew  from  forecastle  head  to 
stern-rail  had  a  word  of  sympathy  at  the  sight  of  his  red 
eyes  and  swollen  tongue.  Perhaps  he  had  forgotten  his 
former  friends — we  cannot  tell.  And  if  he  did,  most  of  us 
must  hesitate  to  cast  the  first  stone,  seeing  the  structure 
of  our  own  hearts. 

Claud  Tyars  soon  regained  his  energy,  and  with  the 
return  of  it  came  that  restlessness  which  characterized  his 
daily  way  of  life.  He  wished  to  be  up  and  doing,  holding 
idleness  as  an  abomination  as  soon  as  its  necessity  became 
questionable.  A  few  men  had  been  put  on  board  the 
merchantman  with  instructions  to  keep  near  their  own 
ship  under  all  circumstances,  and  in  consort  the  vessels 
were  creeping  slowly  through  the  placid  waters  towards 
the  north. 

It  happened  that  Lieutenant  Grace  was  soon  to  leave 
the  slaver  on  a  long  leave  of  absence,  and  he  was  there- 
fore selected  to  go  on  board  the  Martial,  with  Tyars  as 
joint  commander,  and  a  few  men  (for  many  could  not  be 
spared),  with  a  view  to  sailing  for  Madeira,  where  the 
crew  could  be  strengthened. 

At  last  the  doctor  announced  that  the  rescued  man  was 
perfectly  strong  again,  and  that  the  fever-stricken  ship 
was  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge  purified  and  disin- 
fected. 

"  But,"  he  added,  gravely  looking  at  Tyars,  "the  dog 
is  in  a  critical  condition.  I  do  not  consider  myself  justified 
in  allowing  him  to  go  out  of  my  hands.  He  requires  con- 
stant medical  attendance." 

"  Bosh  !  "  replied  Tyars,  with  much  solemnity. 


28  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  1  will  give  you  five  pounds  for  him,"  said  the  doctor, 
innocently. 

"  I  have  not  come  on  board  this  vessel  to  sell  my  dog." 

The  offer  was  increased,  but  to  no  purpose.  Tyars  was 
as  faithful  to  his  dog  as  Muggins  to  his  master.  And  so 
the  two  returned  to  their  vessel  early  one  morning,  when 
a  fair  breeze  was  blowing.  For  the  first  time  since  her 
departure  from  South  America  the  Martial's  sails  were  all 
shaken  out,  and  beneath  a  cloud  of  snowy  canvas  she 
moved  away  on  her  stately  progress  northwards ;  while 
the  little  slave-catcher  returned  to  the  cursed  coast  which 
required  so  close  a  watch. 

One  cannot  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  seamanship  dis- 
played on  board  the  merchantman  was  good,  but  at  all 
events  it  was  bold.  An  older  navigator  would,  without 
hesitation,  have  accused  the  young  captain  and  his  blue- 
coated  first  officer  of  utter  recklessness.  Tyars  held  a 
master's  certificate,  and  by  right  of  seniority  succeeded  to 
the  command  of  the  Martial  vice  captain  and  first  mate 
dead  and  buried.  In  Lieutenant  Grace  he  found  a  coad- 
jutor of  sympathetic  metal.'  Energetic,  alert,  and  bold,  he 
ruled  the  deck  with  cheery  despotism,  and  went  below 
for  rest  with  the  comforting  conviction  that  Grace  would 
never  shorten  sail  from  nervousness. 

The  vessel  was  ludicrously  under-manned,  and  yet 
these  two  commanders  carried  on  night  and  day,  with  no 
thought  of  taking  in  sail  for  safety's  sake.  The  division 
of  this  mighty  crew  of  ten  into  watches  was  in  itself  a 
farce,  for  it  resulted  in  a  sum-total  of  three  able  seamen 
to  handle  sails  sufficient  to  employ  four  or  five  times  their 
number. 

There  was  no  steward,  no  carpenter,  no  sail-maker  on 
board.  But  sail-maker's  and  carpenter's  work  were  alike 
allowed  abeyance,  while  each  watch  cooked  for  itself. 


Against  Orders.  29 

At  first  the  straight-laced  blue-jackets  failed  to  enter  into 
the  spirit  of  the  thing,  and  could  not  quite  shake  off  their 
naval  habit  of  awaiting  orders.  This,  however,  gave  way 
in  time  to  a  joyous  sense  of  freedom  and  adventure. 

The  question  before  this  little  band  of  men  was  the 
safe  conduct  of  a  valuable  ship  and  precious  cargo  home 
to  England,  and  this  they  one  and  all  came  to  look  upon 
in  time  with  that  breadth  of  view  which  the  circumstances 
required.  Man-of-war  trimness  was  out  of  the  question 
— carpenter  there  was  none,  so  paints  could  not  be  mixed, 
nor  decks  calked,  nor  woodwork  repaired.  There  was  no 
sail-maker,  so  things  must  perforce  be  allowed  to  go  a 
little  ragged. 

After  a  long  consultation  with  Grace,  Tyars  had  called 
together  his  little  crew  round  the  wheel,  and  there  de- 
livered to  them  a  short  harangue  in  his  best  "  Union  " 
style.  The  result  of  this  and  a  few  words  from  the  lieu- 
tenant was  that  the  island  of  Madeira  was  enthusiastically 
shelved.  There  were  to  be  no  half  measures  on  board 
the  Martial.  They  would  take  the  ship  home,  if  there 
was  no  watch  below  for  any  of  them. 

This  program  was  ultimately  carried  out  to  the  letter. 
With  the  aid  of  good  fortune,  a  safe  and  rapid  passage  was 
performed,  though,  indeed,  there  was  not  too  much  sleep 
for  any  on  board.  No  mean  energy  was  displayed  by 
Muggins  among  others.  He  gravely  superintended  every 
alteration  of  sail,  every  bit  of  work  requiring  all  hands, 
and  was  never  missing  from  his  post  by  night  or  day. 
When  at  last  the  Channel  pilot  came  on  board,  gazing 
curiously  up  aloft,  where  things  were  anything  but  taut, 
Muggins  was  among  the  first  to  greet  him  with  that  self- 
possessed  gentlemanliness  which  he  wielded  so  uncon- 
sciously. 

And  during  the   voyage  home  Lieutenant  Grace  had 


30  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

studied  his  companion  with  a  slow  comprehensive  scru- 
tiny, such  as  sailors  exercise.  The  two  commanders  had 
not  been  thrown  much  together,  by  reason  of  their  duties 
being  separate  ;  but  it  was  not  to  this  fact  alone  that  the 
naval  officer  attributed  his  failure  to  make  anything  of 
Claud  Tyars.  He  had  found  this  ex-wrangler  calmly  in- 
stalled in  the  humble  post  of  second  mate  to  a  merchant 
sailing-ship.  Moreover,  there  was  no  attempt  to  conceal 
an  identity  which  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  strange. 
Tyars  appeared  in  no  way  conscious  of  an  unanswered 
question  existing  in  his  intercourse  with  the  naval  officer, 
and  there  was  no  suspicion  of  embarrassment  such  as  might 
arise  from  anomaly. 


Home.  31 


CHAPTER  IH. 

HOME. 

« 

THINGS  were  in  this  state  between  the  two  young  men 
when  on  one  morning  in  June  the  Martial  dropped  anchor 
at  Gravesend  to  await  the  tide.  The  news  of  her  tardy 
arrival  had  been  telegraphed  from  the  coast,  and  the 
Channel  pilot,  on  landing  at  Deal,  had  thought  fit  to  com- 
municate to  a  friend  in  the  journalistic  interest  a  some- 
what sensational  account  of  the  wonderful  voyage. 

It  thus  happened  that  before  the  anchor  was  well  home 
in  its  native  mud  a  stout  gentleman  came  alongside  in  a 
wherry  and  climbed  on  deck  with  some  alacrity.  His  lips 
were  a  trifle  white  and  unsteady  as  he  recognized  Tyars, 
and  came  towards  him  with  a  fat  gloved  hand  out- 
stretched. 

"Mr.  Tyars,"  he  said,  breathlessly;  "you  don't  re- 
member me,  perhaps.  I  am  George  Lowell,  the  owner. 
I  have  ten  riggers  coming  on  board  to  start  unbending  sail 
at  once.  I  have  to  thank  you  in  the  name  of  the  mer- 
chants and  of  myself  for  your  plucky  conduct,  and  you 
too,  sir,  as  well  as  these  men." 

So  the  voyage  was  accomplished,  and  Grace  recognized 
the  fact  that  the  time  had  arrived  for  him  to  withdraw  his 
eight  blue-jackets.  Their  strange  duties  were  at  an  end, 
and  one  more  little  tale  of  bravery  had  been  added  to 
England's  great  roll. 

He  gave  the  word  to  his  men  and  went  below  to  get 


32  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

together  his  few  belongings.  As  first  officer,  pro  tempore, 
he  had  navigated  the  ship,  and  for  some  minutes  he  leant 
over  the  plain  deal  table  in  his  diminutive  state-room  with 
his  elbows  upon  the  outspread  chart. 

Across  the  great  spread  of  ocean  was  a  dotted  line,  but 
in  the  marks  there  was  a  difference,  for  three  navigators 
had  worked  out  the  one  voyage.  As  his  eyes  followed 
the  line,  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  in  vivid  retrospection 
back  to  the  still  hot  regions  near  the  equator,  the  young 
fellow  realized  that  the  voyage  had  been  something  more 
than  a  mere  incident  in  his  life.  The  restless  days  and 
sleepless  nights  had  been  very  pleasant  in  their  sense  of 
satisfactory  toil ;  the  very  contrast  of  having  too  much 
to  do  instead  of  too  little  was  pleasurable.  But  above  all, 
there  was  the  companionship  and  friendship  of  a  man  who 
interested  him  more  than  any  he  had  yet  come  in  contact 
with.  In  all  these  days  and  nights  this  companionship 
was  subtly  interlaced,  casting  its  influence  over  all.  And 
now  as  he  stood  in  the  little,  dimly-lighted  cabin,  listening 
vaguely  to  the  footsteps  on  deck  overhead,  he  was  won- 
dering how  it  was  that  he  still  knew  so  little  of  Claud 
Tyars  ;  speculating  still,  as  he  had  speculated  weeks  be- 
fore in  vain,  why  this  educated  gentleman  had  taken  up 
the  rough  hard  life  of  a  merchant  sailor. 

Looking  back  over  the  days  and  nights  they  had  passed 
through  together,  he  realized  how  little  leisure  there  had 
been  for  mere  conversation.  In  the  working  of  the  ship, 
in  the  attempt  to  enable  ten  men  to  do  the  work  of  twenty, 
there  had  been  sufficient  to  keep  them  fully  engaged  with- 
out leaving  time  for  personal  matters.  But  it  is  in  such 
a  life  as  this,  lived  together,  that  men  really  learn  to 
know  each  other,  and  not  in  the  mere  interchange  of 
thought,  or  give  and  take  of  question  and  answer. 

Lieutenant  Grace  was  in  his  small  way  a  student  of 


Home.  33 

human  nature.  Men  who  watch  the  sea  and  sky,  to 
gather  from  their  changes  the  deeper  secrets  of  wind  and 
weather,  acquire  a  habit  of  watching  lips  and  eyes, 
gathering  therefrom  little  hints,  small  revelations,  tiny 
evidences  which,  when  pieced  together,  make  that  strange 
incongruous  muddle  called  Man.  Of  the  human  being 
Claud  Tyars  he  knew  a  good  deal — of  the  gentleman,  the 
University  athlete,  the  traveled  sportsman,  he  knew  ab- 
solutely nothing.  Beyond  the  bare  fact  that  Trinity 
College  had  left  its  ineffaceable  mark  upon  him,  the  past 
history  of  this  sailor  was  a  blank  to  Grace.  The  char- 
acter was  there  in  all  its  self-reliant,  independent  strength, 
but  of  its  foundation  the  little  naval  philosopher  would 
fain  have  learnt  more.  He  was,  however,  too  thorough 
a  gentleman  to  give  way  to  a  mere  vulgar  curiosity,  and 
he  refrained  from  direct  or  hinted  interrogation. 

To  be  thoroughly  interesting  a  human  character  must 
be  quite  unconscious  of  exciting  speculation.  Your  con- 
sciously interesting  man  or  woman  is  a  priggish  fraud. 
At  times  the  unconsciousness  of  Claud  Tyars  almost 
exasperated  his  companion  as  they  journeyed  on  together. 
It  was  the  source  of  some  annoyance,  because  at  times 
Grace  suspected  that  Tyars  shielded  himself  by  this 
means  from  legitimate  speculation.  Most  reserved  men 
hold  the  belief  that  their  more  intimate  thoughts  and 
motives  are  without  interest  to  the  general  public,  and 
upon  that  belief  bury  many  facts  and  fancies  which  might 
on  occasion  lubricate  the  social  wheel  with  some  advantage. 

Grace,  on  the  other  hand,  had  spoken  frankly  enough 
of  his  family,  his  prospects  and  intentions,  during  such 
limited  intercourse  as  their  duties  had  allowed  them. 
There  had  been  no  question  of  a  different  social  status 
between  the  two  men  thus  strangely  thrown  together, 
and  Tyars  had  accepted  his  companion's  recognition  of 
3 


34  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

equality  without  comment  or  remark.  Of  his  former 
companions  he  spoke  with  kindness  and  some  admiration, 
both  totally  devoid  of  patronage.  Altogether  he  treated 
the  question  of  his  peculiar  position  with  an  aggravating 
nonchalance. 

Men  possess  in  a  greater  degree  than  women  the  power 
of  accepting  the  present  without  reference  to  the  past  or 
future. 

They  are  more  ready  to  take  a  man  or  woman  as  they 
find  him  or  her,  without  seeking  to  know  them  more  fully 
by  means  of  a  past  record.  In  fighting  and  working,  in 
sport  or  play,  we  make  very  pleasant  friends  who  remain 
pleasant  friends,  although  we  never  meet  them  except  at 
such  periods  as  a  joint  occupation  provides  for.  Lieu- 
tenant Grace  had  this  spirit  in  considerable  development, 
as  all  soldiers  or  sailors  or  wanderers  are  bound  to  have. 
He  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  many  pleasant  and  in- 
teresting fellows,  only  to  part  with  them  later  in  full 
knowledge  that  the  probabilities  of  life  were  decidedly 
against  a  future  continuance  of  the  friendship.  This  was 
exactly  what  he  desired  to  avoid  in  the  case  of  Claud 
Tyars,  and  as  he  packed  his  portmanteau  he  wondered 
vaguely  what  the  feelings  of  that  young  man  might  be 
upon  the  subject. 

When  he  went  on  deck  a  little  later,  leaving  his  bag- 
gage to  be  brought  up  by  one  of  the  blue-jackets,  this 
thought  was  still  uppermost  in  his  mind.  He  found  Tyars 
and  Mr.  Lowell  walking  together  on  the  after-deck ;  the 
former  talking  earnestly,  while  the  owner  of  the  ship 
listened  with  pained  eyes.  They  came  towards  Grace 
together,  and  he  told  them  of  his  intention  to  take  his 
men  up  to  London  by  train  at  once  in  order  to  report 
themselves  at  the  Admiralty. 

There  were  boats  alongside — the  riggers  were  on  board, 


Home.  35 

indeed  they  were  already  at  work  aloft,  and  there  was  no 
cause  for  further  delay.  He  turned  away  with  visible 
reluctance,  and  went  forward  to  call  his  men  together. 
Mr.  Lowell  followed  and  shook  hands  gratefully,  after 
which  he  went  aft  to  speak  to  the  pilot,  who  was  sitting 
upon  the  wheel-grating  reading  a  newspaper.  Thus 
Grace  and  Tyars  were  left  alone  amidships,  for  the  men 
were  busy  throwing  their  effects  into  the  attendant  boats. 

"I  hope,"  said  Tyars,  "that  you  will  not  get  into  a 
row  for  coming  straight  home  without  calling  at  Madeira 
on  the  chance  of  picking  up  more  men." 

"  I  don't  anticipate  any  difficulty,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  my 
uncle  has  the  pulling  of  a  few  of  the  strings,  you  know." 

Tyars  nodded  his  head.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  The  men  were  already  clambering  down  the  ship's 
side,  eager  to  get  ashore. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Grace,  holding  out  his  hand.  "  I 
— eh — I'm  glad  we  got  her  home." 

"  Good-by." 

They  shook  hands,  and  Tyars  stood  still  upon  the  deck 
he  had  trodden  so  bravely,  while  the  little  officer  moved 
away  towards  the  gangway.  Somehow  there  was  a  sense 
of  insufficiency  on  both  sides.  There  was  something  left 
unsaid,  and  yet  neither  could  think  of  anything  to  say. 

Grace  had  not  gone  many  yards  when  he  stopped, 
hesitated,  and  finally  returned. 

"  I  say,  Tyars,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "  is  this  going  to 
be  the  end  of  it  all?  I  mean — are  we  going  to  lose  sight 
of  each  other  now?  We  have  been  thrown  together  in 
rather  a  singular  way  ;  and,  under  peculiar  circumstances, 
we  have  got  on  very  well  together — haven't  we?  " 

Tyars  changed  color  beneath  his  sunburn. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  with  the  awkward  geniality  of  a 
man  accustomed  to  the  exercise  of  an  iron  reserve  over 


36  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

any  emotion,  and  yet  ashamed  of  his  own  unresponsive- 
ness.  "  Yes,  we  have  got  on  very  well." 

"  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  lose  sight  of  each  other," 
suggested  Grace. 

"  No  ;  I  don't  think  we  ought." 

Still  he  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  suggest — no  common 
haunt  to  hold  up  as  a  likely  meeting-place  such  as  men 
bound  by  many  social  or  household  ties  shield  themselves 
behind  when  friendship  becomes  exacting. 

A  more  sensitive  man  than  the  young  officer  would  at 
once  have  felt  rebuffed,  but  Grace,  in  his  genial  honesty, 
had  no  such  thought.  Perhaps,  indeed,  he  searched 
deeper  into  the  man's  silence  with  his  steady  gaze,  and 
discovered  the  presence  of  some  other  motive  than  unso- 
ciability. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  will  you  come  up  and  see  us  in 
town.  The  gov'nor  would  like  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance. Come  and  dine — yes,  that  is  best,  come  and  dine 
— to-morrow  evening.  Number  one  hundred  and  five 
Brook  Street,  Grosvenor  Square.  You  won't  forget  the 
address  ?  " 

"  Thanks  ;  I  shall  be  most  happy.  What  time  do  you 
dine?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  I  have  been  away  from  home 
four  years  ;  but  come  at  seven." 

"Seven  o'clock;  number  one  hundred  and  five  Brook 
Street.  Thanks." 

They  had  reached  the  gangway,  and  Grace  now  turned 
with  a  little  nod  of  acknowledgment,  and  began  making 
his  way  down  the  unsteady  steps  into  the  boat  awaiting 
him.  Tyars  stood  on  the  grating,  with  one  hand  resting 
on  the  rail  of  the  ship,  the  other  in  his  jacket-pocket. 

"  By  the  way,"  called  out  Grace  as  the  boatman 
shoved  off,  "  bring  Muggins  !  " 


Home.  37 

That  sage  dog,  standing  between  his  master's  legs, 
wagged  the  white  stump  that  served  him  for  a  tail,  and 
dropped  his  pointed  ears  in  quick  acknowledgment  of  the 
mention  of  his  name  in  a  way  which  he  knew  to  be 
friendly. 

"He  is  not  accustomed  to  the  habits  of  polite  society," 
replied  Tyars,  in  a  shout,  because  the  stream  had  carried 
the  boat  astern  already.  "  He  has  got  out  of  the  way  of 
it." 

"Muggins  is  a  gentleman,"  shouted  Grace,  "who 
knows  how  to  behave  himself  in  all  societies  and  all 
circumstances.  You  must  bring  him  !  " 

"All  right!"  laughed  Tyars,  and  he  smiled  down  at 
the  upturned  eager  face,  the  quivering  ears,  and  twitching 
tail  of  the  dog  ;  for  Muggins  knew  well  enough  that  he  was 
under  discussion,  and  awaited  the  verdict  from  his  master's 
lips. 

At  seven  o'clock  that  night  the  Martial  found  rest  at  last, 
moored  safely  alongside  the  quay  in  the  East  India  Dock. 
There  was  a  little  crowd  of  idlers  upon  the  pier  and  on  the 
gates  of  the  tidal  basin,  for  the  fame  of  the  ship  had  spread. 
But  more  eyes  were  directed  towards  the  man  who  had 
done  this  deed  of  prowess,  for  the  human  interest  is,  after 
all,  paramount  in  things  in  which  we  busy  our  minds. 
For  one  who  looked  at  the  ship,  there  were  ten  of  those 
mariners,  dock-laborers,  and  pilots  who  sought  Tyars. 

"  He  ain't  one  of  us  at  all,"  muttered  a  sturdy  lighter- 
man to  his  mate.  "  'E's  a  toff,  that's  wot  'e  is  ;  a  gentle- 
man, if  yer  please." 

But  gentleman  or  no  gentleman,  these  toilers  of  the  sea 
welcomed  the  plucky  sailor  with  a  hoarse  cheer.  The 
stately  ship  glided  smoothly  forward  in  all  the  deep-seated 
glory  of  her  moss-grown  decks,  her  tarnished  brass,  her 
slack  ropes.  There  seemed  to  be  a  living  spirit  of  calm 


38  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

silent  pride  in  the  tapering  spars  and  weather-beaten  hull, 
as  if  the  vessel  held  high  her  head  amidst  her  sprucer 
compeers.  She  seemed  to  be  conscious — this  mere  struc- 
ture of  wood  and  iron  and  yielding  hemp — that  her  name 
was  far  above  mere  questions  of  paint  and  holystone. 
Her  pride  lay  in  her  deeds  and  not  in  her  appearance. 
Her  sphere  was  not  in  moorings  but  upon  the  great  seas. 
She  came  like  a  soldier  into  camp,  disdaining  to  wipe 
the  blood  from  off  his  face. 

Tyars  stood  near  the  wheel,  hardly  noticing  the  crowd 
upon  the  quay.  The  pilot  and  the  dockmaster  had  to 
some  extent  relieved  him  of  his  command,  but  he  still  had 
certain  duties  to  perform,  and  he  was  still  the  captain  of 
the  Martial,  the  only  man  who  sailed  from  London  in  her 
to  return  again. 

When  at  last  she  was  moored  and  his  command  had 
ceased,  he  went  below  and  changed  his  clothes.  When 
he  came  on  deck  a  little  later,  Claud  Tyars  was  trans- 
formed. The  keen,  resourceful  sailor  was  merely  a 
gentleman  of  the  world.  Self-possessed  and  somewhat 
cold  in  manner,  he  was  the  sort  of  man  one  would  expect 
to  meet  on  the  shady  side  of  Piccadilly,  while  his  brown 
face  would  be  accounted  for  by  military  service  in  a  tropi- 
cal climate. 

There  was  about  his  bearing  that  peculiar  carriage 
of  the  head,  or  expression  of  lips  and  eyes  (I  know  not 
which),  noticeable  in  well-born  Englishmen,  conveying 
in  a  manner,  not  always  welcome,  a  sense  of  unquench- 
able independence.  What  renders  this  insular  in- 
dependence difficult  to  meet,  and  almost  offensive,  is  that 
it  is  neither  transatlantically  eager,  nor  German  in  its 
truculence  ;  it  is  merely  indifferent.  It  seems  to  say  : 
"  My  dear  man,  you  may  be  a  hero  or  a  cad,  a  bore  or  a 
prig,  but  these  possibilities  affect  me  in  no  way.  We 


Home.  39 

meet  by  chance,  by  chance  we  shall  never  meet  again. 
I  am  neither  better  nor  worse  for  having  met  you.  You 
are  neither  worth  cultivating  nor  avoiding." 

I  do  not  say  that  the  above  reflections  are  necessarily 
a  part  of  that  repose  of  manner  which  we  pride  ourselves 
upon  possessing,  but  merely  observe  that  something  to 
the  same  effect  appears  to  be  conveyed  by  the  average 
Briton  whose  youth  has  been  nurtured  at  public  school 
and  university,  Woolwich  Academy  and  Sandhurst. 

The  idlers  in  the  Shipping  Office  at  Tower  Hill  were 
treated  on  the  following  morning  to  a  strange  sight.  Ac- 
cording to  formula,  the  brokers  of  the  Martialhad  indicated 
to  the  shipping  authorities  their  desire  to  pay  off  the  crew 
of  the  vessel.  Shortly  before  the  hour  named  a  number 
of  women  began  to  assemble.  Some  were  dressed  re- 
spectably, others  were  of  the  lowest  class  that  London 
produces  ;  but  all  made  some  attempt  at  mourning.  One 
or  two  wore  their  crape  weeds  with  that  incomprehensible 
feminine  pride  in  such  habiliment  which  shows  itself  in  all 
grades  of  society,  while  others  were  clad  in  black — rusty, 
ill-fitting,  evidently  borrowed.  A  common  sorrow,  a 
mutual  interest,  served  as  introduction  among  these  ladies, 
and  they  talked  eagerly  together.  Scraps  of  conversation 
floated  over  the  black  bonnets.  One  had  lost  her  hus- 
band, another  her  son,  a  third  only  her  brother. 

"Ain't  'e  come  yet  ?  "  they  asked  each  other  at  inter- 
vals. "The  survivor — 'im  that  brought  'er  'ome  with 
his  own  'ands.  I  wanter  ask  him  about  my  man — about 
'is  end." 

There  were  no  signs  of  violent  sorrow ;  only  a  sense 
discernible  here  and  there,  of  importance,  the  result  of 
crape. 

At  last  a  hansom  cab  turned  the  corner  of  the  Minories 
and  pulled  up  noisily  on  the  noisy  stones.  Claud  Tyars 


4O  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

threw  open  the  doors  and  stepped  out.  He  had  come  to 
be  paid  off ;  he  was  the  crew  of  the  Martial. 

In  a  moment  he  was  surrounded  by  the  women,  every 
one  clamoring  for  news  of  her  dead  sailor.  The  broker's 
clerk,  an  observant  youth,  noticed  that  during  the  half- 
hour  that  followed,  Tyars  never  referred  to  his  log-book, 
but  answered  each  question  unerringly  from  memory. 
He  gave  details,  dates,  and  particulars  without  hesitation 
or  doubt.  It  was  perhaps  owing  to  a  knowledge  of  the 
commercial  value  of  a  good  memory  that  the  young  clerk 
made  note  of  these  details.  He  was  not  observant  enough 
to  take  account  of  the  finer  shades  of  manner,  of  the  in- 
finite tact  with  which  the  survivor  of  the  crew  treated  the 
women-folk  of  his  late  comrades.  He  did  not  detect  the 
subtle  art  by  which  some  were  sent  away  rejoicing  over 
the  dogged,  dauntless  courage  of  their  husbands  ;  he  was 
only  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  admiration  for  this  man  who 
hitherto  had  hardly  noticed  him.  But  he  failed  to  discern 
that  the  difficult  task  was  accomplished  unconsciously. 
He  did  not  realize  that  Claud  Tyars  possessed  a  gift 
which  is  only  second  to  genius  in  worldly  value — the  gift 
of  unobtrusively  ruling  his  fellow-men. 

As  Tyars  drove  away  from  the  Shipping  Office,  he 
saw  the  street  news-vendors  displaying  their  posters  with 
the  words  :  "A  wonderful  story  of  the  sea,"  printed  in 
sensational  type. 

"  Hang  it,"  he  muttered  with  a  vexed  laugh,  "  I  never 
counted  on  a  notoriety  of  this  sort." 

Presently  he  bought  an  evening  paper  and  read  of  the 
exploits  of  "  Captain "  Tyars  with  a  singular  lack  of 
pride. 

When  Mr.  Lowell,  the  owner  of  the  Martial,  offered 
him  the  command  of  the  ship  the  same  afternoon  in  Lead- 
enhall  Street,  he  gravely  and  politely  declined  it.  With 


Home.  41 

the  shipowner,  as  with  Lieutenant  Grace,  Tyars  appeared 
quite  blind  to  the  necessity  of  an  explanation,  and  none 
was  asked. 

So  ended  the  incident  of  the  Martial.  Its  direct  bear- 
ing upon  the  life  of  Claud  Tyars  would  seem  to  terminate 
at  the  same  moment  ;  but  indirectly  the  experience  thus 
acquired  influenced  his  career,  formed  to  some  extent  his 
character,  and  led  (as  all  things  great  and  small  lead  us) 
to  the  end. 


42  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  BROOK  STREET. 

IN  the  meantime  Lieutenant  Grace  had  received  at  the 
hands  of  his  father  and  sister  a  warm  welcome. 

Without  announcement  of  any  description  he  made  his 
way  from  the  Admiralty  to  Brook  Street,  and  knocked  at 
his  father's  door.  He  found  the  old  gentleman  and  Miss 
Helen  Grace  engaged  in  the  consumption  of  afternoon 
tea. 

"  Oswin  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  admiral  in  a  voice  laden 
with  muffin  and  emotion.  "  I  thought  you  were  on  the 
African  coast." 

Helen  Grace  was  a  young  lady  not  much  given  to  ex- 
clamatory expression  of  feeling.  She  rose  from  the  low 
chair  she  habitually  occupied  near  the  small  table  built 
upon  two  stories — tea  above  and  work  below — and  kissed 
her  brother. 

Then  she  turned  his  face  towards  the  light  by  the  collar 
of  his  coat. 

"  Have  you  been  invalided  home  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No." 

"But  the  Foam  is  out  there  still,"  put  in  the  admiral, 
eager  to  show  his  intimate  knowledge  of  official  matters. 

"  Yes.  I  came  home  in  a  derelict.  A  fine,  big  ship 
without  a  crew.  All  dead  of  yellow  fever,  except  one.  I 
am  glad  that  he  was  picked  out  by  Providence  to  sur- 
vive." 


In  Brook  Street.  43 

"Why  ?  "  inquired  Helen. 

"  Because  I  like  him." 

"  What  was  he — A.B.  or  officer  ?  "  asked  the  admiral, 
who  having  despatched  the  muffin  was  now  less  emo- 
tional. 

"  Second  mate,  holding  a  captain's  certificate.  I  have 
asked  him  to  dinner  to-morrow  night." 

"  Oh  !  "  murmured  Helen,  doubtfully. 

"  With  his  dog — the  other  survivor." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Helen,  in  a  more  interested  tone.  "  Do 
they  know  how  to  behave  themselves  ?  " 

"  I  think  so — both  of  them,"  was  the  reply.  "  Al- 
though we  did  not  dress  for  dinner  on  board  the  Martial.'1 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  observed  the  admiral,  with  an  easy 
chuckle,  which  seemed  in  some  way  connected  with  the 
depths  of  his  chest,  "  that  you  did  not  devote  much  time 
at  all  to  the  question  of  toilet." 

"No,"  replied  Grace,  frankly.  "  We  were  a  shady 
crew.  You  see  there  were  only  ten  of  us  to  navigate  a 
thousand-ton  ship  full-rigged.  We  had  no  time  for  per- 
sonal adornment.  You  will  see  all  about  it  in  the  evening 
paper ;  I  brought  one  with  me  on  purpose.  May  I  have 
some  tea,  Helen  ?  It  is  months  since  I  have  seen  such  an 
article  as  bread-and-butter." 

The  girl  hastened  to  supply  his  wants,  performing  her 
duties  with  that  deft  sureness  of  touch  which  I  venture  to 
think  is  only  found  in  this  happy  land  where  maidens  are 
not  dolls.  While  Grace  was  performing  wonders  among 
the  dainties  supplied  to  him,  his  father  read  aloud  the  de- 
tails of  his  deeds  upon  the  high  seas,  and  Helen  listened 
with  a  faint  smile  of  pride  upon  her  refined  face. 

"  And  this  man,"  she  inquired  when  the  paragraph  had 
been  duly  digested — "the  man  you  have  asked  to  din- 
ner— what  is  he  like?  " 


44  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

The  naval  officer  helped  himself  to  a  limp  slice  of  bread- 
and-butter  with  great  thoughtfulness. 

"  That  is  just  the  difficulty,  my  dear,"  he  replied.  "  I 
cannot  tell  you  what  he  is  like — because  I  don't  know.  I 
do  not  understand  him — that  is  the  long  and  short  of  it. 
He  is  above  me." 

"  I  suppose,"  suggested  the  admiral,  who  held  the 
keener  study  of  human  nature  in  some  contempt,  "  that 
he  is  merely  a  rough  sailor-man — a  merchant  captain." 

The  lieutenant  shook  his  smooth  head. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "  he  is  hardly  that.  Iwantyou," 
he  continued  after  a  pause,  turning  to  his  sister,  "to  judge 
for  yourself,  so  will  not  tell  you  what  I  think  about 
him." 

"  Then  he  is  interesting  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  will  find  him  interesting." 

Helen  was  already  seeking  in  her  mind  how  things 
could  be  made  easy  and  comfortable  for  the  unpolished 
hero  whom  her  brother  had  so  unceremoniously  intro- 
duced into  the  house. 

"  Agnes  Winter  was  coming  to-morrow  to  dine,  but  she 
can  be  put  off,"  she  observed,  carelessly. 

"  Agnes  Winter — why  should  she  be  put  off  ?  Let  her 
come  by  all  means." 

The  little  man's  manner  was  perhaps  too  indifferent  to 
be  either  natural  or  polite.  He  was  either  unconsciously 
rude  or  exaggerating  an  indifference  he  did  not  feel. 
Helen,  however,  continued  her  remarks  without  appearing 
to  notice  anything. 

"  Would  you  not,"  she  inquired,  while  replacing  in  its 
vase  a  flower  that  had  become  displaced,  "  rather  have 
him  quite  alone — when  we  are  by  ourselves,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh  no.  He  is  all  right.  If  he  is  good  enough  for 
you,  he  is  gooyd  enough  for  Agnes  Winter." 


In  Brook  Street.  45 

"  Has  he  got  a  suit  of  dress-clothes  ? "  asked  the 
admiral,  with  a  blunt  laugh. 

Lieutenant  Grace  let  his  hand  fall  heavily  upon  his 
thigh  with  a  gesture  of  mock  regret. 

"  I  quite  forgot  to  ask  him,"  he  exclaimed,  dramatically. 

"There  is  some  mystery  attached  to  this  person," 
laughed  Helen.  Her  laughter  was  a  little  prolonged  in 
order  that  her  father  (whose  duller  sense  of  humor  some- 
times failed  to  follow  his  son's  fancy)  might  comprehend 
that  this  was  a  joke. 

"  Well,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  thrusting  his  hands 
deeply  into  his  pockets,  "I  like  a  man  to  come  to  my 
table  in  a  claw-hammer  coat." 

Helen's  gentle  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  her 
brother's  face.  With  an  almost  imperceptible  movement 
of  lid  and  eyebrow,  hardly  amounting  to  the  license  of  a 
wink,  he  reassured  her. 

"  What  time  is  dinner  ?  I  told  him  to  come  at  seven 
o'clock,"  said  he,  holding  out  his  cup  for  more  tea. 

"  That  is  right,"  answered  Helen. 

"  You  would  have  done  better,"  said  the  admiral,  still 
unpacified,  "to  have  given  the  man  a  dinner  at  your 
club." 

"  Oh,"  replied  his  son,  serenely,  "  I  wanted  you  and 
Helen  to  make  his  acquaintance  ;  besides  I  could  not  have 
invited  Muggins  to  the  club." 

"  Muggins  ?  "  growled  the  old  gentleman  interroga- 
tively. 

"  The  dog." 

"Ah.  Is  he  a  presentable  sort  of  fellow  then,  that  you 
want  your  sister  to  meet  him  ?  " 

"  The  dog  ?  "  inquired  Grace,  with  much  innocence. 

"  No,"  laughed  his  father,  despite  himself;  "the  man 
— Tyre,  or  Sidon,  or  whatever  his  name  is." 


46  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  Tyars.  Yes ;  I  think  so.  Tyars  is  distinctly  pre- 
sentable ...  or  else  I  would  not  have  suggested  his 
coming  to  dine  with  Helen  .  .  .  and  Agnes  Winter." 

Helen  had  moved  away  towards  the  window,  and  was 
now  leaning  against  the  folded  and  old-fashioned  shutter. 
She  turned  and  looked  at  her  brother  as  he  spoke  with 
that  gentle  womanly  scrutiny  which  I,  for  one,  have  learnt 
to  dread  ;  there  is  no  deceiving  it.  It  is  futile  to  tell  bold 
untruths  concerning  one's  health,  or  the  success  of  one's 
last  literary  venture,  beneath  that  scrutiny.  I  have  tried 
with  ignominious  results. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  its  last  rays  glinting  through 
the  taller  trees  of  the  Park  suffused  prosaic  Brook  Street 
in  a  rosy  haze — no  less  rosy  because  of  the  glittering  dust 
rising  from  the  motion  of  many  wheels  and  many  feet. 

Like  her  brother,  Helen  Grace  favored  to  some  extent 
a  gravity  of  demeanor  when  in  repose,  and  her  face  was 
of  that  refined  type  which  possesses  a  great  mobility. 
Some  faces  there  are  which  seem  to  have  brought  from 
old  times  a  recollection  of  gay  knights,  full  of  poetry  and 
full  of  fight ;  of  troubadours  and  patient  women.  Oswin 
and  Helen  Grace  were  of  this  mold.  In  profile  the 
chiseling  of  either  face  was  perfect,  for  Helen  was  but  a 
refined  miniature  of  her  brother ;  and  in  smiling  their 
gray  eyes  lighted  up  with  the  self-same  soft  merriment. 

In  figure  the  girl  had  the  advantage  of  her  brother. 
She  was  slighter  and  taller  in  comparison  of  sex,  but  there 
was  in  her  manner  of  carrying  head  and  shoulders  a  dis- 
tinct resemblance  to  the  sturdy  little  sailor.  The  same 
indescribable  stamp  of  "breed"  was  upon  them  both. 
In  the  man  it  amounted  to  resolution  ;  in  the  woman  it  be- 
spoke the  womanly  virtue  of  endurance,  and  to  both  alike 
it  lent  a  fascination  appealing  more  to  the  stronger  than 
to  the  weaker  sex.  In  the  slight  and  girlish  contours  of 


In  Brook  Street.  47 

her  form,  there  was  a  subtle  sureness  and  strength  which 
was  in  keeping  with  her  demeanor  and  quiet  grace.  In 
animation  her  expression  was  more  varied,  her  lips  more 
mobile  than  her  brother's  manly  features,  and  her  eyes 
were  capable  of  conveying  a  greater  tenderness. 

As  she  stood  in  the  soft  sunlight  looking  sideways 
towards  her  brother,  this  tenderness  was  visible.  These 
two  were  the  only  children  of  a  dead  mother,  who  if  she 
had  never  quite  understood  her  husband  had  at  all  events 
possessed  the  power  of  loving  her  children.  It  is  a  la- 
mentable fact  that  brotherly  love  is  little  nurtured  by 
propinquity.  Brothers  and  sisters  whose  respective  walks 
in  life  have  been  a  trifle  divergent,  undoubtedly  love  each 
other  more  dearly  than  those  who  have  lived  from  child- 
hood under  the  same  roof.  Oswin  Grace  had  left  home 
early,  as  all  naval  men  must,  and  during  the  short  spells 
allowed  to  him  by  a  grateful  country  as  recreation,  he 
had  not  learnt  to  know  his  sister  very  well — not  well 
enough  to  forget  that  he  owed  to  her  the  respect  due  to 
all  women. 

The  two  men  now  started  a  conversation  upon  very 
nautical  matters,  employing  such  technical  terms  and 
waxing  so  interested  that  Helen  sought  a  chair  near  the 
window  and  settled  down  to  listen  with  respectful  silence. 
This  went  on  until  a  functionary  blessed  with  a  beaming 
countenance  came  to  announce  that  the  admiral's  hot 
water  had  gone  up-stairs.  It  was  always  a  pleasure  to 
be  waited  on  by  Salter,  although  as  a  butler  pur  et  simple 
he  was  a  questionable  success.  Although  he  wore  a  black 
coat  and  irreproachable  linen,  carried  the  cellar-key,  and 
performed  most  scrupulously  his  household  duties,  the 
man  was  a  sailor  from  the  top  of  his  thickly-covered  gray 
head  to  the  soles  of  his  great  silent  splay  feet,  to  which 
shoes  were  an  evident  trial. 


48  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

When  the  admiral  had  left  the  room  to  attend  to  his 
formal  toilet,  Oswin  crossed  the  floor  and  stood  beside 
his  sister,  his  hands  stuffed  deeply  into  his  trouser-pockets, 
his  scrutinizing  glance  cast  downwards. 

"  And,"  he  observed,  "  and — here  we  are  again  !  " 

She  laid  aside  her  work. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  affectionately.  "  Here  we  are  again. 
I  have  not  quite  realized  it  yet.  I  am  rather  sorry  I  did 
not  know  that  you  were  coming  home.  There  is  a  mild 
excitement  attached  to  making  and  remaking  unnecessary 
preparations  for  the  return  of  the  traveler  which  is  pleas- 
ant to  the  hearts  of  those  who  wait  at  home." 

"  But  I  could  not  let  you  know,  my  dearly  beloved." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  As  it  is,  the  faithful  Salter  will 
be  happy  because  it  will  be  in  his  hands.  I  expect  he 
has  been  in  your  room  ever  since  you  arrived." 

"  Poor  old  Salter !  "  exclaimed  the  young  fellow  in  a 
tone  which  betokened  that  he  was  not  thinking  very  much 
of  what  he  was  saying.  "  When  he  opened  the  door  he 
swore  and  remarked  affably  that  it  was  Oswin,  without 
any  narrow-minded  prefix  or  title.  Then  he  offered  me 
a  hand  as  large  as  the  door-mat,  part  of  which  I  shook 
with  some  condescension." 

There  was  about  Grace's  manner  the  slightest  suspi- 
cion of  a  desire  to  fill  up  time.  He  was  talking  with  the 
view  of  gaining  time  to  think  of  some  other  subject.  He 
now  broke  off  suddenly  and  walked  away  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  large  room,  looking  at  chairs,  tables,  and 
ornaments  critically. 

"  It  is  very  nice,"  he  observed,  "to  be  home  again." 

Helen  had  resumed  her  work,  and  without  looking  up 
she  answered — 

"  It  is  very  nice  to  have  you  back." 

For  some  moments  there  was  a  silence  in  the  room 


In  Brook  Street.  49 

while  the  young  officer  examined  critically  a  bowl  of 
flowers  standing  upon  the  mantelpiece.  Then  he  turned 
and  spoke  with  a  conversational  evenness. 

"  How  is  Agnes  Winter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  She  is  very  well.  Did  those  flowers  remind  you  of 
her  ?  " 

"  Ye — es,"  he  replied,  slowly  ;  "  I  wonder  why." 

"Because  she  arranged  them,  I  suppose,"  suggested 
the  girl,  looking  up  suddenly  as  if  struck  at  the  possibility 
of  her  idea  being  of  some  weight. 

"  Perhaps  so.     She  is  not  engaged  yet  ?  " 

Helen  threaded  a  needle  with  some  care  and  stooped 
over  her  work. 

"  No ;  she  is  just  the  same  as  ever.  Always  busy, 
always  happy,  always  a  favorite.  But — one  never  hears 
the  slightest  rumor  of  an  engagement,  or  even  a  flirta- 
tion." 

"  While,"  added  Grace,  airily,  "her  dear  friend  flirts 
here  and  flirts  there,  but  keeps  clear  of  the  serious  part 
of  it  all  with  equal  skill." 

"  Which  friend  ?  "  inquired  Helen,  innocently. 

"Yourself!" 

"  Oh !  I  have  my  duties.  Papa  could  not  get  on 
without  me.  Besides,  I  never  flirt.  Marriage  and  love 
and  all  that,  my  brother,  have  much  more  to  do  with  con- 
venience than  is  generally  supposed." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  he  inquired  with  fine  sarcasm. 

"Yes;  I  have  studied  the  question.  You  may  know 
more  about  the  slave-trade  than  I  do,  because  you  have 
had  superior  advantages  in  that  direction  ;  but  I  also  have 
had  advantages,  and  from  personal  observation  beg  to 
state  that  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  convenience  is  the  source 
of  love — in  the  tenth  case  it  is  propinquity." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  fervently.  "  I  will  make  a 
4 


50  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

mental  note  of  your  observations,  and  when  I  marry  a 
plain  and  stupid  heiress  perhaps  you  will  withdraw  them." 

She  ignored  his  pleasantry. 

"  I  often  wonder,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "  why  some- 
body or  other  does  not  fall  in  love  with  Agnes  Winter." 

After  a  pause  he  put  forward  a  suggestion. 

"  Because  she  will  not  let  him,  perhaps." 

"  That  may  be  so,  but  surely  a  sensible  man  does  not 
wait  to  be  allowed." 

"  The  question,"  he  answered,  with  mock  gravity, 
"  is  rather  beyond  me.  It  is  hard  to  say  what  a  sensible 
man  would  do,  because  in  such  matters  no  rule  can  be  laid 
down  defining  where  sense  begins  and  foolishness  ends. 
The  man  who  got  Agnes  Winter  would  be  sensible,  how- 
ever he  did  it." 

Presently  the  girl  went  to  dress  for  dinner,  leaving  her 
brother  standing  at  the  window,  whistling  softly  beneath 
his  breath. 


A  Reunion.  51 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  REUNION. 

IF  there  had  been  any  doubts  entertained  or  discussed 
as  to  the  presentability  of  Claud  Tyars  in  polite  circles, 
these  were  destined  to  an  instant  removal  when  that  indi- 
vidual entered  the  drawing-room  of  No.  105  Brook  Street. 

His  dress,  if  it  erred  at  all,  did  so  on  the  side  of  a  too 
scrupulous  adherence  to  the  latest  dictates  of  society.  His 
manners  were  those  of  a  traveled  and  experienced  Eng- 
lish gentleman.  That  is  to  say  he  was  polite  without 
eagerness,  pleasant  without  gush,  semi-interested,  semi- 
indifferent. 

Oswin  Grace  advanced  to  meet  him  with  a  quick 
glance  of  satisfaction  at  his  irreproachable  get-up,  which 
Tyars  showed  no  sign  of  having  detected. 

The  necessary  introductions  were  made,  and  Tyars  dis- 
played the  same  perfect  knowledge  of  social  habits  up  to 
date.  His  bow  was  a  bow  pure  and  simple,  and  to  the 
admiral  he  offered  his  hand  in  a  calm,  decisive  way,  which 
somewhat  interfered  with  the  old  gentleman's  dignified 
coldness.  There  was  no  bungling  over  this  most  un- 
graceful and  difficult  social  duty. 

"I  think,"  said  Helen  at  once,  with  a  characteristic 
desire  to  make  things  pleasant,  "  that  we  have  met 
before." 

She  was  looking  up  at  Tyars,  who  being  very  tall  stood 
a  head  higher  than  any  one  in  the  room,  and  in  her  eyes 


52  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

there  was  no  speculation,  no  searching  into  the  recesses 
of  her  memory.  The  remark  was  without  interrogative 
hesitation.  It  was  the  assertion  of  a  fact  well  known  to 
her,  and  yet  her  color  changed. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Tyars  ;  "  I  had  the  pleasure  of  danc- 
ing with  you  on  several  occasions  at  the  Commemoration 
three  years  ago." 

"  But  you  are  not  an  Oxford  man  !  "  put  in  Lieutenant 
Grace. 

"  No." 

He  did  not  seem  to  think  it  worth  while  mentioning  that 
his  name  was  on  the  books  of  the  sister  University. 

"What  a  good  memory  you  have,  Mr.  Tyars!  "  ob- 
served Miss  Agnes  Winter  in  a  smooth  soft  voice.  "  Per- 
haps you  can  help  mine.  Have  we  met  before  ?  I  know 
your  face." 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  smile  in  which  there  was  no 
light  of  dawning  recollection. 

"  Hardly,"  he  replied.     "  But  you  were  sitting  in  the 
middle  of  the  last  row  of  the  stalls  at  a  performance  of 
\Hamlet  last  autumn." 

"  Now  I  remember,"  interrupted  Miss  Winter,  with  her 
pleasant  laugh  ;  "  of  course.  Please  don't  tell  me  any 
more.  My  stall  was  number — number  two  hundred  and 
sixty  .  .  .?" 

"  Four,"  suggested  Tyars,  in  such  a  manner  that  it  was 
in  reality  no  suggestion  at  all. 

"  Yes ;  two  hundred  and  sixty-four.  There  was  an 
empty  seat  on  my  right  hand." 

"  And  an  old  gentleman  occupied  that  on  your  left." 

"  My  father,"  she  explained  simply,  but  in  the  tone  of 
her  pleasant  voice  there  was  something  which  made  Tyars 
look  gravely  at  her  with  a  very  slight  bow  as  if  in  apology. 
Oswin  Grace  glanced  at  his  sister  with  raised  eyebrows, 


A  Reunion.  53 

and  she  nodded  almost  imperceptibly.     He  had  not  heard 
of  old  Mr.  Winter's  death. 

In  less  skilled  hands  this  incident  might  have  led  to  an 
awkward  silence,  but  Agnes  Winter  had  not  spent  ten  years 
of  her  life  in  a  whirl  of  society  for  nothing.  She  knew 
that  one's  own  feelings  are  of  a  strictly  individual  value. 

"  You,"  she  continued,  "  took  the  vacant  seat." 

There  was  something  very  like  a  question  in  her  glance. 
Oswin  Grace  did  not  look  pleased,  and  his  eyes  turned 
from  one  face  to  the  other  searchingly.  Then  she  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  received  an  answer  to  her  query,  for  she 
turned  to  Helen  and  launched  into  narration  gaily. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  said,  "  why  these  details  are  en- 
graven so  indelibly  upon  such  a  poor  substance  as  my 
memory.  It  was  rather  a  grand  night ;  royalty  was  pres- 
ent, and  the  theater  was  almost  full.  In  front  of  me 
were  two  men  who  did  not  appear  to  be  taking  an  absorb- 
ing interest  in  the  play,  for  one  was  drawing  something 
which  I  took  to  be  a  map  upon  his  program  .  .  ." 

"  It  was  a  map,"  confessed  Tyars,  lightly. 

"  While  he  whispered  earnestly  at  intervals  to  his  com- 
panion. I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  trying  to 
persuade  him  to  go  and  look  for  Livingstone,  which  sug- 
gestion was  not  well  received.  At  last  he  turned  round. 
I  thought  he  was  admiring,  or  at  least  noticing,  the  new 
diamond  star  in  my  hair,  but  subsequent  events  proved 
that  he  was  looking  over  my  head.  I  was  disappointed," 
she  added  aside  to  Tyars. 

"  I  both  noticed  and  admired,"  he  exclaimed  in  self-de- 
fense. "  There  were  two  diamond  stars,  one  much  larger 
than  the  other." 

All,  except  Oswin,  laughed  at  this  feat  of  memory. 

"  Well,"  continued  Miss  Winter,  in  her  gentle  rippling 
style,  "  at  the  first  interval  this  irreproachable  young  man 


54  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

left  his  seat,  came  round,  turned  back  the  chair  next  to 
me,  and  shook  .  .  .  hands  with  a  man  in  the  pit!  " 

The  pith  of  the  story  lay  in  its  narration,  which  was 
perfect.  The  lady  knew  her  audience  as  an  able  actor 
knows  his  house.  By  some  subtle  trick  of  voice  the  in- 
cident was  made  to  redound  to  Tyars'  credit,  while  its 
tone  was  distinctly  against  him.  The  easy,  cheery,  hon- 
est humor  of  voice  and  expression  was  irresistible. 
Even  the  admiral  laughed — as  much  as  he  ever  laughed  at 
a  joke  not  related  by  himself. 

"  He  was,"  explained  Tyars  in  his  unsatisfactory  way, 
"  a  friend  of  mine." 

At  this  moment  the  door  was  opened  by  Salter,  who 
came  forward  as  if  he  were  going  to  snatch  at  his  fore- 
lock and  report  that  he  had  come  on  board  ;  but  he  evi- 
dently recollected  himself  in  time,  and  announced  that 
dinner  was  ready. 

As  they  were  moving  towards  the  door,  Oswin  suddenly 
stopped. 

"  Where  is  Muggins  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  On  the  mat,"  replied  Tyars.  "  He  was  rather  shy, 
and  preferred  waiting  for  a  special  invitation.  He  is  not 
quite  at  home  on  carpets  yet." 

"  I  have  heard  about  Muggins,"  said  Helen  to  Tyars  as 
they  went  down-stairs  together,  "  and  am  quite  anxious 
to  make  his  acquaintance." 

So  Muggins  was  introduced  to  his  new  friends,  standing 
gravely  on  the  dining-room  hearthrug  with  his  sturdy  legs 
set  well  apart,  his  stump  of  a  tail  jerking  nervously  at 
times,  and  his  pink-rimmed  eyes  upraised  appealingly  to 
his  master's  face.  He  was  endeavoring  to  the  best  of  his 
ability  to  understand  who  all  these  well-dressed  people 
were,  and  why  he  was  forced  into  such  sudden  social  prom- 
inence. Moreover,  he  was  desirous  of  acquitting  him- 


A  Reunion.  55 

self  well ;  and  that  smell  of  ox-tail  soup  was  somewhat 
distracting  to  a  seafarer. 

He  formed  the  subject  of  conversation  while  this  same 
soup  was  being  discussed,  and  Tyars  was  almost  enthu- 
siastic on  the  subject,  somewhat  to  the  amusement  of 
Miss  Agnes  Winter,  who  was  not  a  great  lover  of  dogs. 

The  dinner  passed  off  very  pleasantly,  and  many  sub- 
jects were  discussed  with  greater  or  less  edification.  Miss 
Winter  seemed  to  take  the  lead,  in  virtue  of  her  seniority 
over  the  young  hostess,  touching  upon  many  things  with 
her  light  and  airy  precision,  her  gay  philosophy,  her 
gentle  irony.  Helen  was  graver  in  her  conversation, 
lacking  the  dexterity  of  Miss  Winter  in  dealing  with  every 
subject  as  if  at  one  time  she  had  studied  it  and  thought 
upon  it.  Oswin  was  lightest  in  his  touch  of  them  all,  for 
he  treated  most  things  in  life  from  a  farcical  point  of  view 
— at  least  in  conversation.  And  upon  every  subject 
Claud  Tyars  seemed  to  know  something.  In  the  recesses 
of  his  singular  memory  there  seemed  to  be  an  inexhaust- 
ible store  of  experience,  reading,  hearsay,  and  knowledge. 
Great  facts  were  mixed  up  and  stored  side  by  side  with 
trivial  details.  He  was  as  intimate  with  the  words  of 
Hamlet  as  he  was  posted  up  in  the  details  of  Miss  Winter's 
toilet  on  the  occasion  of  that  play  being  acted  in  London 
a  year  before. 

When  the  two  ladies  left  the  dining-room,  they  carried 
with  them  the  impression  that  Claud  Tyars  was  quite 
unlike  any  man  they  had  ever  met.  It  was  difficult  to 
define  in  the  possession  of  what  qualities  this  difference 
lay,  but  both  alike  were  vaguely  conscious  of  that  fascina- 
tion which  is  exercised  by  utter  naturalness.  It  was  in 
his  complete  unconsciousness  of  any  difference  that  Claud 
Tyars  was  different  from  other  men.  He  was  in  perfect 
ignorance  of  his  own  individuality.  In  his  heart  he  rather 


56  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

prided  himself  upon  being  eminently  commonplace.  From 
a  desire  to  pass  unnoticed  in  the  crowd  he  made  himself 
remarkable  ;  because  his  indifference  was  too  widespread 
to  be  natural.  Many  of  us  are  in  the  habit  of  assuming 
an  indifference  we  do  not  always  feel,  others  exaggerate 
the  same  feeling ;  but  in  none  can  such  be  universal. 
Tyars  made  the  mistake  of  being  universally  indifferent. 
There  was  no  subject  except  Muggins  in  which  he  evinced 
the  slightest  continuous  interest ;  and  the  impression  con- 
veyed to  an  acute  observer,  such  as  Miss  Winter  (or  Helen 
Grace  in  a  minor  degree),  was  that  in  reality  his  mind 
was  possessed  by  one  absorbing  interest.  For  some 
reason  he  wished  to  pass  as  a  man  possessing  no  particular 
purpose  in  life,  and  his  endeavors  took  the  form  of  an 
universal  indifference  which  was  too  perfect  to  be  human. 
The  impression  he  unconsciously  conveyed  was  that 
instead  of  being  purposeless  his  life  and  being  were  ab- 
sorbed by  one  unique  interest  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else. 
What  this  interest  might  be  the  two  girls  could  not  tell, 
and  over  this  question  each  speculated  in  her  own  way  as 
they  mounted  the  softly-carpeted  stairs  in  silence. 

The  drawing-room  was  now  lighted  by  a  large  pink- 
shaded  lamp  which  cast  its  mellow  glow  downwards  upon 
a  table  artistically  disorderly  in  its  comfortable  chaos  of 
literature  and  woman's  dainty  work.  Despite  her  thirty 
years  Agnes  Winter  drew  forward  a  low  chair,  and  seated 
herself  beside  the  table  in  the  full  glow  of  the  lamp  ; 
taking  up  an  illustrated  magazine,  and  turning  the  pages 
idly.  Helen  went  towards  the  piano,  which  was  always 
open  in  silent  invitation.  She  did  not  seek  any  music, 
but  sat  down  and  played  snatches  of  anything  that  came 
into  her  head,  while  her  dainty  foot  pressed  the  soft  pedal 
continuously.  This  habit  of  making  muffled  music  was 
the  outcome  of  her  father's  slumberous  ways  after  dinner. 


A  Reunion.  57 

"  Helen ! " 

The  girl  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  continued  her 
rambling  melody,  while  Miss  Winter  turned  to  the  maga- 
zine again. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  at  length,  making  the  music-stool 
revolve. 

"  Why,"  asked  Agnes  Winter  without  looking  up, 
"  did  you  not  tell  me  that  you  had  met  Mr.  Tyars  before  ?  " 

The  girl  appeared  to  have  expected  the  question  ;  her 
reply  was  quite  ready,  and  almost  forestalled  the  words. 

"  Why  should  I  have  thought  of  connecting  the  Mr. 
Tyars  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  with  the  second 
mate  Tyars  of  the  merchantman  Martial?  " 

"  No  ...  of  course  it  was  hardly  likely.  But  you 
recognized  him  at  once,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes— I  think  so." 

"  I  do  not  remember,"  continued  Miss  Winter  casually, 
"that  you  ever  mentioned  having  met  him." 

"  No  ? " 

Helen  turned  again  upon  the  revolving  stool,  and  sought 
the  soft  pedal. 

"  No  !  "  answered  Miss  Winter,  leaning  suddenly  back, 
and  dropping  her  two  hands  into  her  lap.  Her  dark,  in- 
telligent eyes  were  raised  thoughtfully  towards  the  young 
girl,  who  was  now  playing  a  minuet  with  great  precision. 
"  No  ;  I  think  not." 

Although  Helen  continued  playing  for  some  time  Miss 
Winter  did  not  resume  her  book.  She  sat  in  the  com- 
fortable chair  quite  motionless,  apparently  buried  in 
thought. 

It  was  Helen  who  at  length  broke  the  silence,  rising 
and  coming  into  the  rosy  circle  of  lamplight. 

"  Agnes,"  she  said,  "  I  wonder  why  that  man  has  .  .  . 
taken  to  the  sea  ?  " 


58  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

The  elder  lady  allowed  herself  the  luxury  of  some  mo- 
ments' thought. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered  at  length,  altering  her 
posture  smoothly;  "and,"  she  added  lightly,  "I  don't 
care." 

They  remained  thus  looking  at  each  other.  There  was 
a  slight  smile  upon  Miss  Winter's  face,  her  red  lips  were 
parted  pleasantly.  After  all,  she  did  right  in  drawing  her 
chair  close  to  the  lamp — she  had  nothing  to  fear  from  its 
searching  light.  Her  complexion  was  of  that  clean  pink 
and  white  which  never  alters,  never  burns  in  the  summer 
or  grows  rough  in  winter ;  and  her  features  were  round 
and  pleasantly  full.  She  was  the  sort  of  woman  to  look 
well  with  gray  hair  fifteen  years  later  than  the  period  at 
which  Tyars  met  her.  As  a  girl  she  probably  gave 
promise  of  future  stoutness,  as  a  woman  she  had  failed  to 
keep  the  promise,  and  remained  tolerably  slim.  The 
small  white  hands  and  arms,  dropped  idly  in  her  lap,  had 
a  clever  dexterous  air  with  them.  The  majority  of  her 
friends  looked  upon  Agnes  Winter  as  a  woman  who  was 
not  likely  to  make  an  egregious  error  in  life. 

The  slight  smile  with  which  she  encountered  her  com- 
panion's grave  glance  might  have  aggravated  persons  to 
whom  her  character  was  superficially  known.  Its  tenor 
was  almost  ironical.  Helen,  however,  continued  gazing 
gravely  down  at  the  pleasant  whole  without  heeding  the 
irony  of  the  eyes. 

"  Is  he  not  peculiar  ?  "  she  said  at  length,  with  a  little 
backward  jerk  of  the  head. 

"  Very  !  Most  peculiar,  I  consider  him.  Nevertheless  I 
like  him." 

"  He  is  very  gentlemanly,"  suggested  Helen,  moving 
away  to  clear  a  small  table  for  the  coffee-tray. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Miss  Winter.     "  And  I  think  he  has 


A  Reunion.  59 

an  object.  ...  He  would  like  us  to  think  that  he  has  not 
—but  I  think  he  has." 

"  What  sort  of  an  object  ?  " 

"  An  object  in  life,  my  dear." 

Helen  came  forward  carrying  a  small  Chinese  table. 

"  I  suppose  we  all  have  that." 

"  Not  all  of  us,  Helen,"  corrected  Miss  Winter,  with  a 
slight  suspicion  of  bitterness. 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  Mr.  Tyars'  object  in  life 
to  be  ?  " 

Miss  Winter  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  conception,"  she  replied  ;  "  no 
doubt  we  shall  find  out  in  time.  Men  cannot  conceal  an 
honest  purpose  for  very  long.  It  leaks  out." 

Helen  took  up  her  work,  and  presently  found  a  comfort- 
able chair  which  she  brought  forward  beside  the  little 
table.  But  she  did  not  seem  disposed  to  ply  her  needle 
very  steadily.  After  a  few  stitches  her  fingers  became 
idle.  She  raised  her  head,  and  although  her  eyes  were 
apparently  fixed  upon  the  upper  part  of  the  wall,  she  did 
not  give  one  the  impression  of  seeing  anything.  Her  gaze 
had  the  appearance  of  penetrating  the  wall,  piercing 
through  the  thick  vapors  of  earth,  and  soaring  away  into 
ethereal  depths  unknown.  At  the  same  time  she  seemed 
to  be  listening.  Her  face  was  like  that  of  a  child  told  by 
her  nurse  to  listen  for  the  beat  of  an  angel's  wing. 

Miss  Winter  glanced  up,  and  immediately  returned  to 
the  perusal  of  her  magazine.  She  knew  that  expression 
of  Helen's  face,  and  had  once  laughingly  told  her  that 
when  she  thought  deeply  she  seemed  to  expect  the  ideas 
to  come  flying  down  from  heaven,  for  she  looked  and 
listened  for  them  as  if  they  were  birds. 

At  length  the  girl  stirred  and  gave  forth  a  little  short, 
practical  sigh. 


60  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"Well,"  inquired  Miss  Winter,  pleasantly,  "  what  is 
the  result  of  that  ?  " 

"  Of  what  ?  " 

"  Of  that  meditation." 

Helen  put  in  a  few  stitches  before  replying  frankly — 

"  I  wish  I  knew  his  object." 

"  I  do  not  Gupposc,"  said  the  older  woman  in  a  consola- 
tory tone,  "  that  it  will  prove  very  interesting.  It  is  prob- 
ably a  very  commonplace  object — the  most  commonplace 
of  all  perhaps,  money.  After  the  age  of  thirty  few  of  us 
care  for  anything  else,  and  I  should  set  him  down  at 
thirty -two." 

Helen  shook  her  head  in  gentle  negation,  but  did  not 
make  any  further  protest.  She  turned  to  her  work  again, 
and  sewed  for  a  considerable  time  in  silence.  Once  she 
raised  her  head  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  the  words  came 
not  forth.  A  second  time  she  raised  her  head  and  spoke 
slowly  in  such  away  that  no  interruption  was  permissible. 

"  I  am  interested,"  she  said,  "  in  the  matter,  because 
I  have  a  sort  of  feeling  that  whatever  Mr.  Tyars'  object 
in  life  may  be,  Oswin  will  be  drawn  into  it  sooner  or  later. 
I  don't  know  from  whence  I  got  the  idea,  but  that  is  my 
distinct  impression.  Did  you  notice  the  way  in  which  he 
looked  at  Oswin  ?  He  seemed  to  be  watching  him,  study- 
ing him,  drawing  him  out." 

"As  if,"  suggested  Miss  Winter,  keenly,  "he  were 
examining  him  for  some  special  object." 

"  Yes.     Then  you  noticed  it  ?  " 

Agnes  Winter  nodded  her  head  gravely. 

"  I  almost  wish,"  said  Helen,  after  a  short  pause  in 
which  they  had  both  recalled  in  silent  thought  the  small 
incidents  of  the  evening  ;  "  I  almost  wish,  Agnes,  that  he 
had  not  come." 

This  was  greeted  with  a  short  laugh — the  fearless  laugh 


A  Reunion.  61 

of  a  woman  who  knows  her  will  to  be  stronger  than  the 
average  will  of  man. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  .  .  .  because  of  his  object.  This  purpose- 
less man  came  here  to-night  not  because  he  happened  to 
have  nothing  better  to  do,  not  because  he  was  too  indif- 
ferent to  refuse  Oswin's  invitation,  but  for  some  specific 
reason." 

"  Now,"  observed  Miss  Winter,  in  a  very  matter-of- 
fact  voice,  "you  are  exaggerating  matters.  There  is  no 
greater  mistake  to  be  made  than  to  assign  motives  indis- 
criminately. Most  people  have  no  motives  at  all,  some 
of  us  have  them  occasionally,  but  nobody  has  a  chronic 
purpose." 

"  Mr.  Tyars  has  a  chronic  purpose,  that  is  why  he  is 
different  from  other  people,"  persisted  Helen. 

There  was  a  pleasant  confidence  about  Miss  Winter. 
Perhaps  it  was  merely  a  conversational  attribute  of  no 
great  influential  power,  but  it  frequently  obtained  for  her 
the  credit  of  knowing  more  about  her  subject  than  was 
really  the  case. 

"  No,"  she  said  calmly ;  "  he  is  different  from  other 
people  because  his  appearance  is  singular.  His  height  is 
decidedly  above  the  average,  and  there  is  a  peculiar  solid 
force  about  him  which  may  mean  great  strength  of  will, 
or  it  may  be  only  a  matter  of  physical  bulk.  He  wears  a 
beard,  and  beards  are  not  the  fashion  just  now,  even  in 
the  navy.  That,  my  dear,  is  why  Mr.  Tyars  is  different 
from  other  people." 

She  stopped  and  seemed  to  await  a  reply,  which, 
however,  was  not  forthcoming.  Then  suddenly  she  de- 
scended to  a  feminine  detail. 

"  I  like  his  beard,"  she  added,  "it  is  trim  and 
manly." 


62  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

This  observation  Helen  was  pleased  to  ignore.  She 
was  still  meditating  over  the  expression  of  Tyars'  face 
while  he  happened  to  be  looking  at  her  brother  Oswin. 
She  could  not  explain  it  to  herself,  but  there  was  some- 
thing disquieting  in  the  attention  accorded  by  this  man  to 
his  new  friend.  It  was  not  only,  as  she  had  explained  to 
Miss  Winter,  that  Tyars  was  watching  Oswin  Grace,  but 
there  was  in  the  man's  steady  eyes  a  gleam  of  distinct 
purpose.  She  had  seen  this  on  more  than  one  occasion, 
had  caught  it  in  transit,  and  in  the  momentary  flash  of 
misapprehension  had  been  quite  unable  to  define  its 
meaning. 

"  I  should  think,"  she  said  at  last,  "  that  he  is  a  man 
of  very  strong  will." 

Miss  Winter  smiled  meditatively. 

"  It  is  difficult,"  she  answered,  "  to  tell  on  such  a  short 
acquaintance.  Men  are  like  bottles  of  wine.  One  should 
not  judge  them  from  the  appearance  of  the  sawdust  they 
carry." 

"  Still,  I  think  that  on  further  acquaintance  one  would 
find  a  strong  will  beneath  Mr.  Tyars'  pleasant  suavity." 

"  Perhaps  so." 

"  I  should  be  rather  afraid  to  count  upon  the  contrary," 
said  Helen. 

Again  Miss  Winter  smiled  in  a  pleasant,  indifferent  way, 
which  in  some  degree  made  the  conversation  trivial  in  its 
bearing. 

"  Oh  no,"  she  murmured,  reassuringly ;  "  I  think  I 
should  not  be  afraid  to  match  myself  against  Mr. 
Ty—  .  .  ." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Tyars  came  in, 
followed  by  the  admiral.  They  had  come  up  the  thickly- 
carpeted  stairs  without  speaking. 


Doubts.  63 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DOUBTS. 

MISS  WINTER  looked  up  with  a  smile  and  met  Tyars* 
smiling  eyes. 

There  was  no  doubt  whatever  that  he  had  heard.  The 
matter  did  not  present  itself  to  her  mind  in  the  light 
of  a  question.  She  knew,  and  over  this  certainty  she 
was  thinking  with  all  the  rapidity  of  her  sex  and  kind. 
Woman  of  the  world  as  she  was,  she  acted  promptly:  if 
a  placid  inactivity  can  be  prompt  and  may  be  so  denom- 
inated. It  is  dangerous  to  lay  down  a  comprehensive  rule 
for  anything  or  any  crisis  in  life  ;  but  it  seems  that  calm- 
ness is  a  great  factor  in  human  progress.  One  would 
conclude  in  a  small  way,  from  small  experience,  that  the 
people  who  do  good  in  the  world  and  get  on  therein  are 
those  who  keep  calm  "when  breezes  blow,"  and  do 
almost  nothing.  Almost — mind  you — not  quite  nothing  ! 
It  is  such  as  these  who  act  rightly  when  the  moment 
comes.  They  are  the  reserve  of  our  great  human  army, 
and  from  a  military  point  of  view  it  is  well  to  consider  in 
whose  hands  rests  the  command  of  the  reserve.  He 
should  be  the  best  man  upon  the  field. 

"  We  have,"  said  Tyars,  pleasantly,  addressing  both 
ladies  at  once,  "  been  talking  most  unmitigated  '  shop.'  '' 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  replied  Miss  Winter,  "  that  gentle- 
men always  do.  The  seed  that  runs  to  waste  in  gossip 
with  us,  sprouts  into  sturdy  vegetable  '  shop'  with  men." 


64  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

The  admiral,  who  was  at  times  a  little  testy  after  a 
good  dinner,  lifted  his  white  head  and  mentally  measured 
this  youth  who  dared  to  place  his  own  knowledge  of 
maritime  matters  upon  a  level  with  that  of  an  old  sea-dog 
like  himself — who  dared,  moreover,  to  class  the  two 
under  the  opprobrious  term  of  "  shop." 

"  Then,"  he  said  in  a  throaty  voice  as  he  seated  him- 
self, "  I  suppose  you  call  yourself  quite  a  sailor  despite 
your  Cambridge  honors." 

"  Not  in  your  presence." 

Helen  looked  up  sharply  over  her  coffee-tray.  It  was 
impossible  to  tell  whether  there  were  irony  or  not  in  the 
smile  with  which  Tyars  looked  down  at  his  host.  The 
old  man  took  the  remark  as  a  compliment,  in  which  spirit 
it  had  to  all  appearances  been  made. 

"The  sea,"  he  said  in  a  pleasanter  tone,  "is  like  a 
woman.  Young  men  think  they  understand  it,  old  men 
know  they  don't !  " 

"And,"  put  in  Miss  Winter  between  sips  of  coffee, 
"like  us  its  mystery  lies  in  its  simplicity."  .  .  .  She 
turned  towards  Tyars,  who  was  standing  over  her  with  a 
plate  of  biscuits.  As  she  took  one  she  looked  up  at  him 
for  a  moment.  "  In  both  cases,"  she  said,  "the  superfi- 
cial is  honored  by  too  small  an  attention.  Men  look  too 
much  beneath  the  surface  for  events  that  come  from 
outside." 

"  I  have  been  told,"  he  answered,  "that  a  good  sailor 
learns  to  take  things  as  they  come  without  seeking  to 
learn  from  whence  they  do  so." 

"  Do  you  take  sugar?  "  inquired  Helen,  in  her  down- 
right way. 

"Or,"  added  Miss  Winter,  without  looking  up,  "  will 
you  take  your  coffee  as  it  comes?  " 

Tyars  had  crossed  the  room  towards  Helen.     He  glanced 


Doubts.  65 

back  over  his  shoulder  after  having  received  his  cup 
from  her  steady  white  fingers. 

"  Seeing,"  he  said  to  Miss  Winter,  "from  whence  it 
comes,  I  think  I  will." 

She  laughed,  and  answered  nothing.  Perhaps  she 
was  thinking  of  the  words  he  had  probably  overheard  on 
entering  the  room.  There  was  a  pause  and  a  silence 
such  as  succeeds  the  whistle  and  the  ring  of  steel  when 
two  fencers  lower  their  foils  and  breathe  hard.  At  this 
moment  Oswin  Grace  entered  the  room  carrying  some 
books,  of  which  there  had  been  a  question  at  the  table. 
At  his  heels  came  Muggins,  who,  however,  paused  upon 
the  threshold  and  watched  his  master's  face. 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  said  Helen  to  Tyars. 

And  so  Muggins  joined  the  party,  and  went  from  one 
to  the  other  with  a  calm  ignorance  of  the  undercurrents  of 
social  intercourse.  He  was  pleasant  and  courteous,  as 
was  his  invariable  habit,  and  it  is  not  for  us  to  analyze 
his  motives  or  to  insinuate  that  sweet  biscuits  are  pleasant 
fare  after  hard  tack  and  rusty,  warm  water.  He  soon 
discovered  that  Miss  Winter  failed  to  recognize  his  mani- 
fold virtues,  but  this  omission  was  repaired  by  Helen, 
whose  silk  train  was  offered  for  his  comfort.  With  that 
air  of  philosophic  surprise  which  is  characteristic  of  his 
kind  he  accepted  the  proffered  seat,  and,  I  regret  to  state, 
snored  rather  loudly  during  the  evening. 

As  the  time  went  on,  passing  pleasantly  enough  in  that 
vague  and  general  conversation  which  vanishes  as  soon 
as  intimacy  begins,  Miss  Winter  noticed  how  very  little 
Tyars  spoke  of  himself.  This  reticence  was  almost  a 
fault,  and  it  may  as  well  be  stated  at  once  that  so  far  from 
possessing  a  motive  was  Tyars,  that  he  was  quite  un- 
aware of  the  peculiarity.  It  was  a  mere  habit  acquired 
from  a  continuous  intercourse  with  men  below  him  in  the 
5 


66  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

moral  and  social  scale.  He  had  dropped  into  a  way  of 
treating  everything  from  an  impersonal  point  of  view, 
which  in  time  is  calculated  to  aggravate  the  listener. 
Discussions  carried  on  in  such  a  spirit  are  in  reality  des- 
perately futile,  because  if  we  do  not  frankly  take  the 
world  from  a  personal  point  of  view  we  shall  not  get  much 
instruction  from  it.  Miss  Winter  went  so  far  as  to  place 
him  once  or  twice  in  such  a  position  that  his  own  personal 
opinion,  or  the  result  of  individual  experience,  would  have 
been  the  simplest  answer,  but  he  invariably  quoted  from 
the  experience  of  some  vague  and  unnamed  acquaintance. 
Admiral  Grace  was  the  only  person  who  really  succeeded 
in  getting  a  piece  of  personal  information,  and  this  by  the 
bluntest  direct  question. 

"I  once,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "was  on  a  com- 
mittee with  a  west-country  baronet  of  your  name — a  Sir 
Wilbert  Tyars — is  he  any  relation  of  yours?  " 

"Yes,"  Tyars  answered,  with  just  sufficient  interest 
to  prove  his  utter  indifference.  "  Yes  ;  he  is  my  uncle." 

There  was  a  short  pause  ;  some  further  remark  was 
evidently  expected. 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  for  many  years,"  he  added,  clos- 
ing the  incident. 

When  Miss  Winter's  carriage  was  announced  at  a  quarter 
to  eleven,  Tyars  rose  and  said  good  night  with  an  un- 
emotional ease  which  might  equally  have  marked  the  be- 
ginning of  an  intimacy  or  the  consummation  of  a  formal 
social  debt. 

When  Agnes  Winter  came  down-stairs  arrayed  in  a  soft 
diaphanous  arrangement  of  Indian  silk  he  was  gone,  and 
the  three  young  people,  as  they  bade  each  other  good 
night  in  the  hall,  were  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  insufficiency. 
None  of  the  three  attempted  to  define  this  sensation  even 
to  themselves,  but  it  was  not  mere  curiosity — not  that 


Doubts.  67 

vulgar  curiosity  which  attracts  all  human  beings  to  a 
drawn  curtain.  It  is  worth  noticing  that  Claud  Tyars' 
name  was  not  mentioned  again  in  the  house  after  the 
front-door  had  closed  behind  him.  And  yet  every  person 
who  had  seen  him  that  evening  was  thinking  of  him  ;  upon 
them  all  the  impress  of  his  singular  individuality  had  been 
left. 

"'Ain't  wot  I'd  call  a  sailor  man  neither,"  muttered 
old  Salter,  thoughtfully  scratching  his  stubbly  chin  with  a 
two-shilling  piece  which  happened  to  be  in  his  hand  as  he 
returned  to  the  pantry  after  closing  the  front-door.  "  And 
yet  there's  grit  in  him.  Sort  o'  *  bad  weather '  man,  I'm 
thinking." 

Oswin's  reflections  as  he  undressed  and  slowly  pre- 
pared for  sleep  were  of  a  mixed  character.  He  was  not 
quite  sure  that  the  visit  of  his  late  shipmate  had  been  an 
entire  success.  His  own  personal  interest  in  the  man  had 
in  no  way  diminished,  but  the  light  of  feminine  eyes  cast 
upon  their  friendship  had  brought  that  difference  which 
always  comes  to  our  male  acquaintances  when  we  intro- 
duce them  to  our  women-folk. 

Claud  Tyars  in  flannel  shirt  and  duck  trousers  on  the 
deck  of  the  Martial  was  in  Oswin  Grace's  estimation  the 
personification  of  all  that  is  manly  and  brave ;  but  the 
same  individual  in  evening  dress,  treading  soft  carpets 
instead  of  washed-out  planks,  talking  in  a  smooth  voice 
instead  of  shouting  orders,  was  quite  a  different  man.  He 
admitted  to  himself  that  Tyars  seemed  to  be  as  much  at 
home  in  the  one  place  as  in  the  other.  And  he  failed 
perhaps  to  see  that  the  reason  of  this  subtle  feeling  of 
antagonism  was  not  so  deeply  hidden  after  all.  It  lay  in 
the  simple  fact  that  that  side  of  Claud  Tyars'  character 
which  can  only  be  described  as  the  dominant — the  uncon- 
scious but  arbitrary  influence  wielded  by  him — was  em- 


68  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

inently  desirable  on  the  quarter-deck,  and  distinctly  out  of 
place  in  a  drawing-room,  presided  over  by  a  young  lady. 
Grace  knew  that  his  father  had  been  prejudiced  against 
Tyars  because  he  was  a  merchant  sailor  and  a  second 
mate  ;  qualifications  which  are  hardly  recommendations  in 
a  drawing-room.  He  suspected  that  Helen  was  not  en- 
tirely free  from  this  same  preconceived  opinion,  and  prob- 
ably Agnes  Winter  had  been  made  a  partner  in  the  feel- 
ing. Now  prejudice  is  a  hard  foe  to  meet,  because  the 
human  mind,  as  we  all  know,  is  mighty  skilful  at  twisting 
facts  and  fancies  into  any  shape  but  the  right  one.  A 
mistaken  prejudice  has  before  now  lasted  the  lifetime  of 
its  victim — we  see  the  work  of  prejudice  around  us  every 
day.  Oswin  Grace  was  a  sufficiently  close  observer  of  hu- 
man nature  to  know  that  Claud  Tyars  had  come  into  his 
father's  house  heavily  handicapped.  He  was  quite  aware 
that  his  late  companion  in  peril  had,  up  to  seven  o'clock 
that  evening,  been  looked  upon  by  his  father,  his  sister, 
and  Miss  Agnes  Winter  as  a  person  who  was  not  quite  a 
gentleman.  The  question  now  was  whether  the  last 
four  hours  had  made  any  difference  in  this  opinion  ;  if  so, 
what  difference  ?  He  had  intended  to  surprise  his  family 
with  the  manifest  fact  that  if  any  Englishman  had  a  right 
to  the  vague  appellation,  Claud  Tyars  was  distinctly  en- 
titled to  it.  Of  the  conveyance  of  this  impression  Oswin 
felt  confident,  but  he  was  now  wondering  whether  they 
had  found  out  what  sort  of  gentleman  he  was.  It  takes  a 
good  deal  less  than  four  hours  to  find  out  whether  a  person 
is  a  gentleman  or  not.  I  imagine  that  it  could  be  done  in 
four  minutes,  for  this  is  a  mere  matter  of  instinct ;  but  it 
is  quite  another  task  to  judge  a  man  from  a  critical  point 
of  view — to  decide  whether  one  likes  him  or  not.  Re- 
specting his  father's  impressions  Grace  was  not  very  anx- 
ious ;  but  for  some  reason  which  he  did  not  attempt  to 


Doubts.  69 

define,  he  was  desirous  of  hearing  what  Miss  Agnes 
Winter  thought  of  his  friend  Claud  Tyars.  He  thought 
that  he  had  detected  a  peculiar  mutual  attraction  between 
these  two.  Tyars  addressed  his  conversation  more  fre- 
quently to  Miss  Winter  than  to  any  one  else,  although  he 
had  in  his  manner  recognized  Helen  as  the  only  sister  of  his 
friend.  Miss  Winter  had  allowed  herself  to  be  interested 
in  his  remarks,  and  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  display 
warmth  in  more  than  one  argument  in  which  he  came  out 
the  best.  Oswin  Grace  had  always  looked  upon  Miss 
Winter  as  a  firm  friend.  She  represented  in  his  eyes  all 
that  was  perfect  and  fascinating  in  womanhood.  His  sis- 
ter he  looked  upon  as  the  incarnation  of  gentleness  and 
goodness  ;  for  few  of  us,  unfortunately,  allow  our  sisters 
the  credit  of  being  either  perfect  or  fascinating.  Although 
he  had  never  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  Agnes  Winter  was 
his  senior  by  some  years,  his  feelings  towards  her  were 
more  akin  to  love  than  to  anything  else.  Their  mutual 
relationship  was  one  of  those  strange  and  dangerous  anom- 
alies that  mislead  men,  and  have  misled  them  since  the 
days  of  Plato.  It  will  not  be  recorded  what  the  world  had 
to  say  about  them,  for  that  has  remarkably  little  to  do 
with  the  case.  The  world  is  pleased  to  pass  off  opinions 
as  facts  ;  and  in  this  case  opinion  carried  no  weight,  while 
the  only  fact  of  solid  worth  is  that  they  were  close  friends. 
Oswin  Grace  did  not  give  one  the  impression  that  he  was 
suffering  under  blighted  hopes  ;  he  displayed  none  of  those 
petty  jealousies,  none  of  those  airs  of  proprietorship,  with 
which  lovers  harass  the  footsteps  of  the  young  person 
they  admire.  He  had  noticed  this  subtle  sense  of  mutual 
understanding  between  the  two  persons  whom  he  con- 
sidered at  that  moment  to  be  his  dearest  friends  upon 
earth,  and  it  is  just  possible  that  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  felt  a  slight  pang  of  jealousy. 


7o  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

At  all  events  he  realized  that  Miss  Winter's  judgment 
of  Claud  Tyars  was,  of  the  three,  the  most  likely  to  be 
free  from  prejudice.  If  there  was  in  his  heart  the  slightest 
feeling  of  jealousy  he  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman,  and 
too  loyal,  to  allow  such  thoughts  to  influence  his  friend- 
ship for  Tyars,  whom  he  honestly  considered  to  be  a 
better  man  than  himself. 

A  German  writer  once  made  the  remark  that  Prejudice 
is  a  more  dangerous  enemy  to  Truth  than  Falsehood  ;  and 
it  was  doubtless  in  partial  knowledge  of  this  fact  that  Os- 
win  Grace  felt  himself  called  upon  to  defend  his  friend. 
Most  of  us,  especially  when  we  were  young,  have  ex- 
perienced that  sense  of  helpless  disappointment  which  al- 
most inevitably  follows  upon  the  bringing  together  of  two 
dear  friends  hitherto  unknown  to  each  other.  The  fact  of 
possessing  a  mutual  friend  is  not,  after  all,  such  a  strong 
and  unexceptional  tie  as  one  would  imagine.  Grace  was 
disappointed  by  the  utter  want  of  enthusiasm  displayed 
by  his  sister  and  Miss  Winter  respecting  the  man  whom 
he  admired  enthusiastically  himself.  He  had  purposely 
refrained  from  singing  Tyars'  praises  because  he  felt  con- 
fident that  the  man  was  capable  of  winning  instant  ad- 
miration without  assistance.  Perhaps  he  had  uncon- 
sciously allowed  this  prejudice  to  grow  up  against  him  in 
his  blind  admiration  for  one  whom  he  looked  upon  as 
worthy  of  universal  respect.  The  young  sailor  was  now 
burdened  by  unpleasant  doubts  as  to  whether  Tyars  had 
come  through  the  ordeal  with  flying  colors.  He  ignored 
the  great  difference  in  the  circumstances  of  his  own  meet- 
ing with  Tyars  and  that  of  his  family. 

The  peculiar  position  of  making  a  man's  acquaintance 
by  saving  his  life  is  one  from  which  a  cool  and  deliberate 
criticism  can  hardly  be  made.  From  the  very  first  he  had 
felt  himself  drawn  towards  the  incongruous  castaway 


Doubts.  71 

whose  calm  reception  of  events  was  calculated  to  appeal 
to  the  heart  of  every  brave  man.  The  friendship  had 
grown  from  this  tiny  germ  into  a  strong  tree  upon  which 
mutual  burdens  might  in  years  to  come  be  hung.  Tyars 
had  come  into  the  Brook  Street  drawing-room  under  more 
ordinary  circumstances,  and  with  no  flourish  of  brave 
trumpets.  Altogether  the  circumstances  of  the  first  visit 
were  against  him. 

Oswin  Grace  was  still  meditating  over  these  things 
when  sleep  overtook  him ;  but  he  had  in  the  mean  time 
fully  made  up  his  mind  to  see  Agnes  Winter  the  next 
day. 


72  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  "ARGO." 

IT  was  not  yet  nine  o'clock  the  following  morning  when 
Claud  Tyars  left  the  door  of  the  quaint  old-fashioned  hotel 
where  he  was  staying  in  the  very  heart  of  London.  The 
usually  busy  streets  were  still  comparatively  empty. 
Washed-out  housemaids  in  washed-out  cotton  dresses 
were  dusting  the  front  doorsteps  of  such  old-world  folks 
as  were  content  to  continue  living  on  the  eastern  precincts 
of  Tottenham  Court  Road. 

As  the  young  fellow  walked  briskly  through  some  quiet 
streets  and  finally  emerged  into  Holborn  he  was  smoking 
a  cigarette  with  evident  enjoyment.  In  his  dress  there 
was  this  morning  a  slight  suggestion  of  the  yachtsman,  that 
is  to  say,  he  was  clad  in  blue  serge,  and  his  brown  face 
suggested  the  breezes  of  ocean.  Beyond  that  there  was 
nothing  to  seize  upon,  no  clue  as  to  what  this  powerful 
young  man's  calling  or  profession,  tastes  or  habits,  might 
be.  He  stopped  occasionally  to  look  into  the  shop-win- 
dows with  the  leisurely  interest  of  a  man  who  has  an  ap- 
pointment and  plenty  of  time  upon  his  hands.  Any  one 
taking  the  trouble  to  follow  him  would  have  been  struck 
with  the  singularity  of  his  choice  in  the  matter  of  shop- 
windows.  He  appeared  to  take  an  interest  in  such  estab- 
lishments as  a  general  dealer's  warehouse.  There  is  a 
large  grocer's  shop  on  the  left-hand  side  of  Holborn,  half- 
way down,  and  here  he  stopped  for  a  considerable  time, 


The  "Argo."  73 

studying  with  great  attention  a  brilliant  array  of  American 
tinned  produce.  A  tobacconist's  was  treated  with  slight 
heed,  while  the  wares  of  a  large  optician  appeared  to  be 
of  absorbing  interest. 

Thus  he  made  his  placid  way  eastward.  At  about  nine 
o'clock  he  was  nearing  the  General  Post-Office,  and  here 
he  called  a  hansom  cab.  Down  Cheapside,  Cornhill, 
Gracechurch  Street,  into  Eastcheap,  and  so  on  to  Tower 
Hill,  the  driver  guided  his  evil-tempered  horse.  The  doors 
of  St.  Katherine's  Dock  had  been  open  only  a  few  min- 
utes when  Tyars  passed  through  the  building  into  the 
London  Dock. 

On  the  quay,  under  an  iron-roofed  shed  at  the  head  of 
the  dock,  a  red-faced,  red-bearded,  clumsy  man  was  walk- 
ing slowly  backwards  and  forwards  with  that  idle  pa- 
tience which  soon  becomes  second  nature  in  men  accus- 
tomed to  waiting  for  weather  and  tides.  When  he  per- 
ceived Tyars  he  lurched  forward  to  meet  him,  expecto- 
rating hurriedly  and  surreptitiously  with  the  evident  de- 
sire of  concealing  from  one  side  of  his  face  the  proceedings 
of  the  other. 

Tyars  acknowledged  his  jerky  salutation  with  a  pleasant 
nod,  and  they  walked  away  together.  This  burly  son  of 
the  north  was  the  man  with  whom  Tyars  had  exchanged 
a  shake  of  the  hand  one  evening  in  a  London  theater  when 
Miss  Winter  was  seated  close  by. 

They  walked  the  whole  length  of  the  dock,  avoiding 
with  an  apparent  ease,  pitfalls  in  the  way  of  ring-bolts, 
steam-pipes,  and  hawsers.  At  the  lower  end  of  the  basin, 
moored  to  a  buoy  in  mid-dock,  lay  a  strange-looking  little 
steamer.  Her  chief  characteristic  was  clumsiness — clum- 
siness of  hull,  clumsiness  of  spar,  and  general  top-heavi- 
ness. An  initiated  eye  would  account  for  it  at  once  by 
the  fact  that  this  was  one  of  those  rare  anomalies  in  Eng- 


74  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

glish  waters,  a  wooden  steamer.  Her  bows  were  origin- 
ally very  bluff,  and  being  now  heavily  encased  in  an  outer 
armor  of  thick  timber  the  effect  was  the  reverse  of  pretty. 
She  was  rigged  like  a  brig,  and  her  tall,  old-fashioned  fun- 
nel, rearing  its  white  form  between  the  masts,  suggested 
an  enlarged  galley  chimney. 

Altogether  she  was  the  strangest  looking  craft  in  the 
docks,  where  many  quaint  old  ships  are  slowly  rotting  to 
this  day.  The  London  Dock  is  a  sort  of  maritime  home 
for  incurables.  Here  are  to  be  found  strange  construc- 
tions of  oak  and  teak  and  pine  ;  experiments  in  iron,  abor- 
tions in  steel.  Commerce  has  almost  left  these  waters 
for  more  convenient  quarters  lower  down  the  river,  and 
here  vessels  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  each  and  every 
one  with  its  past  history  clinging  to  its  old-world  spars, 
humming  through  its  hempen  rigging — here  they  find  a 
last  resting-place  on  the  still  and  slimy  water ;  here  they 
rock  no  more  to  the  roll  of  ocean,  fight  no  more  against 
adverse  winds  and  foul  weather.  Their  moldering  decks 
know  not  now  the  tread  of  quick  bare  feet,  their  bleached 
ropes  hang  idle,  for  the  fingers  that  grasped  them  are  limp 
and  moldering.  The  grass  is  peeping  up  between  the 
stones  of  the  quay,  where  in  days  gone  by  the  ever-in- 
creasing wonders  of  India  oozed  odorously  between  the 
staves  of  their  clumsy  casks.  The  jaggery  is  washed  out 
from  the  crannies  in  the  pavement,  the  plumbago  has 
vanished  from  the  walls,  and  through  the  vast  warehouses 
reigns  a  solemn  silence. 

All  things  in  this  home  for  incurables  suffer  from  the 
same  disease,  and  one  for  which  there  is  alike  no  cure 
and  no  mercy  in  these  times.  A  deadly  slowness  per- 
vades them  all.  It  is  the  leprosy  branded  on  the  old  sad 
ships  and  written  on  the  rusted  chains  of  the  old  hand- 
cranes,  now  utterly  and  hopelessly  superseded  by  hy- 


The  "Argo."  75 

draulic  power.  The  grim  warehouses  with  their  narrow 
entrances,  their  inconvenient  passages  and  awkward 
doorways,  tell  the  same  tale.  They  lack  the  power  of 
speed  ;  when  they  were  built  rapidity  was  not  a  human 
virtue. 

In  the  midst  of  this  Claud  Tyars  and  his  uncouth  com- 
panion stood  gazing  out  into  the  middle  of  the  basin  to- 
wards the  ugly  steamer.  It  was  said  among  the  dock- 
laborers  and  custom-officers  that  the  vessel  had  been  built 
at  Trontheim  in  Norway  for  a  steam-whaler ;  that  she 
had  been  bought  by  an  Englishman,  and  was  now  being 
leisurely  fitted  out  under  the  supervision  of  the  red-haired 
Scotchman  who  lived  on  board.  Her  destination  was  a  pro- 
found mystery.  Some  thought  that  she  was  to  be  a  whaler, 
specially  fitted  for  the  "north  water";  others  boldly 
stated  that  she  was  destined  to  open  up  commerce  with 
China  by  the  Northeast  passage.  But  it  was  nobody's 
business  to  inquire,  and  speculation  is  a  form  of  conver- 
sation much  affected  by  persons  who  lounge  about  the 
water's  edge.  The  ship's  account  was  regularly  paid 
by  a  West-end  lawyer,  and  beyond  that  the  Dock  Com- 
pany had  no  inclination  to  inquire. 

"I  think,"  said  Tyars,  critically,  as  he  stood  examin- 
ing the  little  steamer,  "that  you  have  got  on  splendidly, 
Peters.  She  looks  almost  ready  for  sea." 

"Ay  .  .  ."  responded  the  red-faced  man  slowly. 

He  was  no  great  conversationalist.  With  his  great 
head  bent  forward  he  stood  beside  the  tall,  straight  man, 
and  in  his  attitude  and  demeanor  there  was  a  marked 
resemblance  to  a  shaggy,  good-natured  bear.  His  small 
green  eyes,  deeply  hidden  beneath  red-gray  brows, 
twinkled  speculatively  as  he  took  in  every  rope  and  spar. 

"  You  have  got  the  new  foremast  up,  I  see.  A  good 
bit  of  wood? " 


76  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"Fine!" 

He  shook  his  head  sadly  from  side  to  side  at  the  mere 
thought  of  that  piece  of  wood. 

"  And  the  standing-rigging  is  all  up  ?  " 

"Ay  .  .  ." 

"  And  the  running-rigging  ready  ?  " 

"  Ay  ;  them  riggers  was  fools." 

Tyars  smiled  in  an  amused  way  and  said  nothing. 

A  boat  now  put  off  from  the  strange  steamer  and  came 
towards  them.  A  small  boy  standing  in  the  stern  of  it 
with  his  legs  apart  and  his  back  turned  towards  them, 
propelled  it  rapidly  with  half  an  oar.  Presently  it  came 
alongside  some  slimy  steps  near  to  them,  and  the  two 
men  stepped  into  it  without  speaking.  There  was  some- 
thing hereditary  in  the  awkward  manner  in  which  the 
boy  jerked  his  hand  up  to  his  forehead  by  way  of  saluta- 
tion. They  all  stood  up  in  the  boat,  the  older  men  sway- 
ing uncomfortably  from  side  to  side  at  each  frantic  effort 
of  the  boy  with  the  half-oar. 

When  they  reached  the  steamer  Tyars  clambered  up 
the  side  first,  stepping  on  board  with  the  air  of  a  man 
well  acquainted  with  every  corner  of  the  ship.  He  looked 
round  him  with  an  unconscious  pride  of  possession,  at 
which  a  yachtsman  would  have  laughed,  for  there  was 
no  great  merit  in  being  the  owner  of  such  a  ludicrous  and 
strange  craft.  Peters,  the  red-faced  sailor,  followed,  and 
a  minute  examination  of  the  vessel  began.  Below,  on 
deck,  and  up  aloft,  the  two  men  overhauled  together 
every  foot  of  timber,  every  bolt  and  seizing.  The  taci- 
turn old  fellow  followed  his  employer  without  vouchsaf- 
ing a  word  in  praise  of  his  own  handiwork.  He  did  not 
even  deign  to  point  out  what  had  been  done,  but  followed 
with  his  head  bent  forward,  his  knotted  fingers  clasped 
behind  his  back.  As  it  happened  there  was  no  need  to 


The  "Argo."  77 

draw  attention  to  such  details,  for  here  again  Tyars  dis- 
played the  unerring  powers  of  his  singular  memory.  No 
tiny  alteration  escaped  him.  There  seemed  to  be  in  his 
mind  a  minute  inventory  of  the  ship,  for  without  effort  he 
recalled  the  exact  state  of  everything  at  an  earlier  period, 
vaguely  designated  as  "  before  I  went  away." 

No  improvement  however  small  escaped  comment,  and 
yet  the  praise  was  very  moderate.  In  this  matter  he 
might  well  have  allowed  himself  some  license,  for  the 
work  was  almost  faultless.  It  was  a  marvelous  record 
of  steady,  untiring  industry.  From  morning  till  night 
through  many  months  this  ship's  carpenter  had  toiled  at 
his  labor  of  love.  Unurged  by  any  master  beyond  his 
own  conscience,  he  had  worked  while  daylight  lasted, 
lying  down  to  rest  in  the  floating  scene  of  his  labors  when 
the  day  was  done.  He  had  been  purposely  allowed  carte 
blanche  in  the  matter  of  materials,  and  a  large  limit  re- 
specting time.  In  this  Tyars  gave  evidence  of  a  deep 
knowledge  of  men — that  instinctive  knowledge  without 
which  no  commander,  no  leader  of  his  fellows,  ever  yet 
made  his  mark  in  the  world. 

When  the  inspection  was  finished  the  two  men  walked 
slowly  aft,  and  standing  there  beside  the  high,  old-fash- 
ioned wheel  they  gazed  forward,  taking  in  slowly  and 
deliberately  every  detail  of  rigging  and  deck. 

"  I  believe,"  said  Tyars  at  length,  "that  I  have  found 
the  man  I  want — my  first  mate." 

The  twinkling  green  eyes  sought  the  speaker's  face 
unobtrusively. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  old  fellow  in  a  non-committing  voice. 

"  A  royal  navy  man." 

There  was  the  faintest  whistle  audible  in  the  stillness 
of  the  deserted  dock.  Tyars  looked  down  at  his  com- 
panion, whose  gaze  was  steadily  riveted  on  the  foretop- 


78  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

gallant  mast.  The  whistle  was  not  repeated,  but  the 
straightforward  sailor  disdained  to  alter  the  form  of  his 
twisted  lips. 

"I  had,"  continued  Tyars,  calmly,  "another  very 
good  man — cook  and  steward — but  he  died  of  yellow 
fever." 

Peters  turned  slowly  and  contemplated  his  employer's 
face  before  answering — 

"Ay  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  marvelous  monosyllable.  In  its  limited  com- 
pass he  managed  to  convey  his  knowledge  of  Tyars'  late 
exploit — his  entire  approval  of  the  same — and  his  regret 
that  the  good  cook  and  steward  should  have  been  called  to 
another  sphere  while  there  was,  humanly  speaking,  still 
work  for  him  to  do  here  below. 

Then  he  stood  stock-still  with  his  misshapen  lips  pressed 
close  together.  His  grizzled  mustache  and  short  beard 
(of  which  each  individual  hair  seemed  to  be  distorted 
with  a  laudable  endeavor  to  outcurl  its  neighbor)  were 
somewhat  discolored  by  tobacco  smoking  and  the  indul- 
gence of  another  evil  habit  connected  with  consumption 
of  the  same  weed.  Tyars  glanced  at  him,  and  saw  in 
every  curve  of  his  powerful  frame,  every  line  of  his  scar- 
ified face,  a  stubborn,  ruthless  contempt  for  all  wearers 
of  her  Majesty's  uniform  at  sea.  The  old  sea-dog  had  no 
patience  with  the  drawing-room  manners  observed  (and 
necessarily  observed)  on  the  decks  of  her  Majesty's  ships. 
He  was  displeased  that  Tyars  should  have  become  ac- 
quainted with  a  naval  man  to  whom  he  thought  of  en- 
trusting a  post  of  importance,  but  true  to  his  stubborn 
habits  of  silence  he  would  not  speak  of  it.  Tyars  knew 
well  enough  the  thoughts  that  were  passing  through  the 
mind  of  his  companion.  He  ignored  however  the  naval 
man,  and  went  on  to  talk  of  the  steward  last  mentioned. 


The  "Argo."  79 

"This  fellow,"  he  said,  "was  just  the  sort  of  chap  I 
want.  Plenty  of  hard  work  in  him,  and  always  cheerful. 
Sort  of  man  to  die  laughing,  which  in  fact  he  did.  The 
last  sound  that  passed  his  lips  was  a  laugh." 

Peters  nodded  his  head  in  a  large  and  comprehensive 
way.  At  times  he  was  desperately  literal,  but  there  were 
occasions  when  he  could  follow  a  thought  only  half  ex- 
pressed. His  lips  parted,  but  no  sound  came  from  them. 
In  any  case  I  think  it  would  only  have  been  the  weighty 
monosyllable  with  which  this  ancient  mariner  attempted 
to  work  off  his  conversational  liabilities. 

As  they  were  standing  there,  Peters  the  younger 
emerged  from  the  small  galley  amidships,  bearing  a  tin 
filled  with  potato-peelings  which  he  proceeded  to  throw 
overboard.  Seeing  this,  the  proud  father  eyed  his  em- 
ployer keenly,  and  moved  from  one  sturdy  leg  to  the 
other.  He  clasped  and  unclasped  his  hands,  while  his 
jaw  made  a  slight  motion  as  if  to  bestow  more  conveni- 
ently some  object  located  in  the  cheek.  All  these  symp- 
toms denoted  a  great  effort  on  the  part  of  the  ship's  car- 
penter. He  was,  in  fact,  about  to  make  a  remark.  At 
last  he  threw  up  his  head  boldly. 

"  And  the  lad  ?  "  he  said,  with  some  abruptness. 

Tyars  looked  critically  at  the  youth,  momentarily  en- 
gaged in  expelling  the  last  few  pieces  of  potato-skin  ad- 
hering to  the  tin,  and  made  no  answer.  His  face  har- 
dened in  some  indescribable  way,  and  from  the  movement 
of  mustache  and  beard  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  biting  his 
lip. 

"There's  plenty  o'  work  in  him — an'  he's  cheerful," 
almost  pleaded  the  man. 

Tyars  shook  his  head  firmly.  Had  Miss  Winter  seen 
his  face  then,  she  would  have  admitted  readily  enough 
that  he  was  a  man  with  a  purpose. 


8o  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  He  is  too  young,  Peters." 

The  carpenter  shuffled  awkwardly  to  the  rail,  and  hav- 
ing expectorated  viciously,  returned  with  his  dogged  lips 
close  pressed. 

"  Have  ye  thowt  on  it  ? "  he  inquired. 

Tyars  nodded. 

"  I'd  give  five  years  o'  my  life  to  have  the  lad  wi'  us," 
he  muttered. 

"  Can't  do  it,  Peters." 

"  Then  I  winna  go  without  him,"  said  Peters,  sud- 
denly. He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  trousers-pockets  and 
stood  looking  down  at  his  own  misshapen  boots. 

The  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  flickered  through  Tyars' 
eyes.  He  turned  and  looked  at  his  companion.  Without 
the  slightest  attempt  at  overbearance  he  said  pleasantly — 

"Yes,  you  will  .  .  .  and  some  day  you  will  thank  God 
that  the  boy  was  left  behind." 

Peters  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  made  no  answer. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  met  a  will  equal  to 
his  own  in  stubbornness,  in  purpose.  And  it  was  perhaps 
easier  to  give  in  to  it  because  in  method  it  differed  so 
entirely  from  his  own.  It  is  possible  that  in  the  mere 
matter  of  strength  Peters  was  a  mental  match  for  his 
employer,  but  Tyars  had  the  inestimable  advantage  of 
education.  What,  after  all,  is  human  intercourse  but  one 
long  struggle  for  mastery  ?  Is  there  any  one  of  us  who  is 
not  consciously  or  unconsciously  seeking  to  get  the  better 
of  his  neighbor  ?  and  in  this  struggle  the  cultivated  in- 
tellect is  bound  to  win.  Neither  equality,  nor  fraternity, 
nor  liberty  can  stand  against  education. 

Admiral  Grace  in  taunting  Tyars  with  his  Cambridge 
honors  had  unwittingly  laid  his  finger  upon  the  weakness  of 
his  entire  generation.  In  his  time  a  scientific  sailor  had 
been  unknown.  Tyars  belonged  to  a  later  class  of  sea- 


The  "Argo."  81 

men,  as  indeed  did  his  friend  Oswin  Grace,  and  both 
men  were  conscious  of  their  own  superiority  in  seamanship 
over  the  sailors  of  Admiral  Grace's  day,  though  they  were 
too  wise  to  betray  their  knowledge. 

It  was  this  reserve  of  knowledge  which  rendered  the 
result  of  a  struggle  between  the  stubborn  Scotchman  and 
his  employer  a  foregone  conclusion.  And  as  Tyars  clam- 
bered nimbly  down  the  side  of  the  little  wooden  steamer, 
the  carpenter  was  vaguely  conscious  of  defeat. 

The  little  boat  was  urged  to  the  shore  in  the  usual 
jerky  manner,  while  the  clumsy,  red-faced  sailor  stood 
watching  from  the  deck.  He  noted  how  Tyars  was  talk- 
ing to  the  boy,  who  laughed  at  times  in  a  cheery  way. 

"  Ay,"  muttered  Peters,  with  a  short,  almost  bitter 
laugh,  "there's  some  that  is  born  to  command." 

As  Tyars  passed  out  of  one  gate  of  the  London  and 
Saint  Katharine's  Dock,  a  lady  entered  the  premises  by 
another.  They  passed  each  other  unconsciously  within 
a  few  yards.  Had  either  been  a  moment  earlier  or  a 
moment  later  they  would  have  met. 

The  imposing  gate-keeper  touched  his  hat  respectfully 
to  the  lady,  who  was  Miss  Agnes  Winter. 
6 


82  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN  THE  CITY. 

CLAUD  TYARS  walked  through  the  narrow  streets, 
westwards,  without  noticeable  haste.  His  gait  was 
neither  that  of  the  busy  city  merchant  nor  the  easy  lounge 
of  the  sailor  out  of  work.  On  Tower  Hill  and  in  Trinity 
Square  these  two  classes  almost  monopolize  the  pave- 
ment. He  was  therefore  somewhat  remarkable,  and 
more  than  one  sailor  turned  back  to  look  at  the  keen-eyed 
man,  who  had  honored  him  with  such  an  obvious  glance 
of  interest ;  for  Claud  Tyars  had  a  habit  of  looking  at  his 
fellows  in  the  peculiar  gauging  manner  which  Miss  Grace 
had  detected. 

It  was  not  an  offensive  habit,  but  still  somewhat  notice- 
able. We  have  all  seen  artists  look  at  the  sky  or  the  sea 
or  a  landscape  with  a  skilled  analyzing  glance.  In  like 
manner  the  botanist  examines  growing  things,  or  the 
jockey  his  horse.  It  was  in  this  way  that  Claud  Tyars 
looked  at  some  men,  notably  at  sailors.  Some  of  them, 
especially  those  in  search  of  a  ship,  almost  touched  their 
hats  in  response.  To  a  certain  extent  they  were  justified, 
because  Tyars  seemed  almost  to  be  seeking  some  one. 

When  he  reached  the  broader  streets  and  fuller  thorough- 
fares of  the  city  proper,  his  eyes  grew  more  restful.  The 
man  or  men  he  sought  were  evidently  innocent  of  a  silk 
hat.  He  passed  through  Eastcheap  and  up  Gracechurch 
Street,  failing  to  take  advantage  of  certain  small  passages 


In  the  City.  83 

and  time-saving  thoroughfares  in  a  manner  which  be- 
trayed his  ignorance  of  his  whereabouts.  He  looked  about 
him  inquiringly,  but  made  no  attempt  to  ask  his  way. 
Presently  he  seemed  to  recognize  some  familiar  landmark, 
for  he  went  on,  crossed  Cornhill,  and  proceeded  up  Bish- 
opsgate  Street.  He  turned  suddenly  up  a  narrow  pas- 
sage on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  street,  and  pushing  open 
a  swing-glass  door,  climbed  a  flight  of  lead-covered  steps. 
On  the  second  floor  he  stopped  before  a  door  bearing  on  a 
small  brass  plate  the  name,  M.  M.  Easton.  Without  knock- 
ing he  opened  the  door,  and  on  his  entrance  an  elderly 
man  rose  from  his  seat  at  a  low  table,  and  after  a  quick 
glance  lowered  his  colorless  gray  eyes,  bowing  gravely. 
Tyars  returned  the  salutation  with  a  short  nod. 

The  elderly  man  then  turned  to  go  into  a  room  beyond 
the  small  bare  office,  and  the  most  casual  observer  could 
hardly  have  failed  to  notice  a  singularity  in  the  contrast 
thus  afforded.  When  he  turned  his  back,  this  city  clerk 
was  no  longer  elderly.  His  back  was  that  of  a  young  man. 
Addressing  himself  to  some  unseen  person  in  the  inner 
room,  he  uttered  two  words  only — the  name  of  the  Eng- 
lishman waiting  in  the  outer  office — without  prefix  or 
comment. 

"  Come  in,  Tyars  !  "  called  out  a  cheerful  tenor  voice 
immediately,  and  the  clerk  turning,  and  turning,  so  to 
speak,  into  an  old  man  again,  stepped  aside  to  let  the 
visitor  pass  through  the  doorway. 

The  man  who  rose  to  greet  Tyars,  holding  out  a  thin 
hand  across  the  table  at  which  he  had  been  seated,  was 
singularly  slight.  His  narrow  shoulders  sloped  at  a  larger 
angle  from  the  lines  of  his  sinewy  neck  than  is  usually  to 
be  found  in  men  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  The  hand  held 
out  was  unsteady,  very  white  and  long,  while  the  forma- 
tion of  each  joint  and  bone  was  traceable.  The  face  was 


84  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

narrow  and  extremely  small ;  at  school  Matthew  Mark 
Easton  had  been  nicknamed  "  Monkey  "  Easton.  Despite 
his  youthful  appearance,  it  was  some  years  since  he  had 
left  school,  and  indeed  men  of  his  year  at  Harvard  were 
mostly  married  and  elderly  while  Easton  still  retained  his 
youth.  In  addition  to  this  enviable  possession  there  was 
still  noticeable  in  his  appearance  that  slight  resemblance 
to  a  monkey  by  which  he  had  acquired  a  nickname  singu- 
larly appropriate.  It  was  not  only  in  the  small  intel- 
ligent face,  the  keen  anxious  eyes  and  thin  lips,  that  this 
resemblance  made  itself  discernible,  but  in  quickness  of 
glance  and  movement,  in  that  refined  and  nervous  tension 
of  habit  which  is  only  found  in  monkeys  of  all  the  lower 
animals. 

By  way  of  greeting,  this  man  whistled  two  or  three 
bars  of  "See  the  Conquering  Hero  comes,"  softly  through 
his  teeth,  and  pointed  to  a  chair. 

"  Smith/'  he  said,  raising  his  voice,  "you may  as  well 
go  to  the  bank  now  with  those  checks." 

There  came  no  answer  to  this  suggestion,  but  presently 
the  door  of  the  outer  office  closed  quietly. 

"  I  call  him  Smith,"  continued  Easton,  in  a  thin  and 
pleasant  voice  spiced  by  a  distinct  American  accent,  which 
to  Anglo-Saxon  ears  lent  humor  to  observations  of  an 
ordinary  and  non-humorous  character,  "  because  his  name 
is  Pavloski.  There  is  a  good  honest  English  ring  in  the 
name  of  Smith  which  does  not  seem  so  much  out  of  place 
when  he  has  his  hat  on  as  you  might  imagine.  That  un- 
fortunately luxuriant  crop  of  gray  hair  standing  straight 
up  gives  him  a  foreign  appearance,  which  the  name  of 
Pavloski  would  seem  to  confirm.  Besides,  it  takes  such 
a  long  time  to  say  Pavloski." 

While  he  was  speaking,  Easton's  face  had  remained 
quite  grave  and  consequently  very  sad.  Such  faces  as 


In  the  City.  85 

his  know  no  medium,  they  are  either  intensely  humorous 
or  intensely  sad,  and  in  either  phase  I  think  they  are 
more  fascinating  than  the  majority  of  human  visages. 
He  spoke  lightly,  and  seemed  to  be  giving  very  little  real 
attention  to  what  he  was  saying.  On  the  other  hand  his 
small  brown  eyes  were  singularly  restless,  they  moved 
from  one  part  of  his  companion's  person  to  another  as  if 
seeking  some  change  which  was  not  visible. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Both  had  much  to  say,  and 
they  appeared  to  be  thinking  and  searching  for  a  suitable 
beginning.  Easton  spoke  first. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  trim  and  taut,  and 
ready  as  usual.  The  executive  keeps  up  to  the  mark." 

Although  he  spoke  with  businesslike  terseness  his 
accents  were  almost  irresponsible,  like  those  of  a  woman. 
For  most  women  pass  through  life  without  ever  incurring 
a  full  responsibility.  They  usually  lay  half  the  burden 
on  the  shoulders  of  some  man  in  their  proximity. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Tyars,  "  my  department  is  in  working 
order.  The  ship  is  getting  on  well,  and  I  have  found  my 
first  officer." 

The  slight  delicate  man  looked  at  his  companion's  large 
limbs  and  half  suppressed  a  sigh.  His  wistful  little  face 
contracted  into  a  grave  smile,  and  he  nodded  his  head. 

"  I  dislike  you,"  he  said,  in  his  peculiarly  humorous 
way,  "  when  you  talk  like  that.  It  seems  to  imply  an 
evil  sense  of  exultation  in  your  physical  superiority, 
which,  after  all,  is  fleeting.  You  are  only  dust,  you  know. 
But — but  it  is  rather  poor  fun  staying  at  home  and  pulling 
strings  feebly." 

"It  has  its  advantages,"  said  Tyars,  in  an  uncon- 
sciously thoughtful  tone,  which  brought  the  restless  eyes 
to  his  face  at  once.  "Besides,"  he  added  more  lightly, 
"  you  do  not  pull  feebly.  The  tugs  are  pretty  strong, 


86  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

and  the  strings  you  must  remember  reach  a  good  dis- 
tance." 

"  Ye — es  !  "  Matthew  Mark  Easton  had  a  singular  habit 
of  elongating  the  little  word  into  several  syllables,  as  if  in 
order  to  gain  time  for  thought.  He  would  say  "  y — e — 
e — s,"  and  fix  his  eyes  on  one  in  a  far-off  way  which  was 
at  times  rather  aggravating.  One  felt  that  he  was  men- 
tally wondering  all  the  time  why  one  wore  such  an  ugly 
scarf-pin,  or  tied  one's  tie  in  such  a  shapeless  heap. 

"Ye — es !  I  suppose  it  has.  But,"  he  said,  rousing 
himself,  "  I  have  not  been  idle.  That  is  to  say,  Smith — 
Pavloski  Smith,  you  know !  He  has  been  working  ter- 
rifically hard.  Poor  devil  !  His  wife  is  out  there — at 
Kara." 

"  Yes — I  know.  You  told  me,"  interrupted  Tyars,  and 
his  manner  unconsciously  implied  that  a  fact  once  im- 
parted to  him  was  never  forgotten.  "  Has  he  heard 
from,  or  of,  her  yet?  " 

"  No  ;  not  for  two  years  !  He  believes  she  is  alive  still, 
and  a  report  came  from  Riga  that  she  has  been  sent  to 
Kara." 

The  Englishman  listened  without  comment.  His  strong 
bearded  face  was  not  pleasant  to  look  upon  just  then,  for 
the  massive  jaw  was  thrust  forward,  and  there  was  a 
peculiar  dull  glow  in  his  placid  eyes. 

"  There  was  a  child,  you  know,"  continued  the  Ameri- 
can, watching  the  effect  of  his  words,  "to  be  born  in 
prison — in  a  Siberian  prison,  where  the  attendants  are  the 
riff-raff  of  the  Russian  army — more  brutes  than  men. 
That  would  probably  be  a  year  ago." 

He  paused,  his  thin  voice  lowering  towards  the  end  of 
the  sentence  in  a  way  that  rendered  his  American  accent 
singularly  impressive  in  its  simple  narrative. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  continued,  "  what  has  become  of  that 


In  the  City.  87 

refined  lady  and  that  helpless  infant — now.  It  brings  the 
thing  before  one,  Tyars,  in  rather  a  bright  light,  to  think 
that  that  man  Sm — Pavloski,  who  comes  here  at  half-past 
nine  every  morning,  goes  out  to  lunch  in  a  small  eating- 
house  next  door,  and  goes  home  to  his  Pentonville  lodging 
at  five  o'clock — that  that  man  has  a  wife  in  a  Siberian 
prison.  A  wife — a  woman  whom  he  has  lived  with  every 
day — day  after  day  ;  whose  every  tone,  every  little  ges- 
ture, every  thought,  is  familiar  to  him.  I  surmise  that  it 
must  be  worse  than  being  in  a  Siberian  prison  oneself !  " 

It  is  easy  to  set  down  the  words,  but  to  render  the  slight 
twang,  the  wonderful  power  of  expressing  pathos  that  lay 
hidden  in  this  man's  tongue,  is  a  task  beyond  any  pen. 
In  most  voices  there  lies  a  speciality.  No  one  can  go  to 
a  theater,  upon  the  stage  of  which  a  language  comprehen- 
sible to  him  is  spoken,  without  hearing  this.  Some  there 
are  possessing  a  peculiar  ring  which  tells  of  passion,  others 
a  light  tone  which  is  full  of  natural  humor.  Each  may 
play  through  his  part  indifferently  until  a  few  lines  come 
which  enable  him  to  show  his  speciality,  and  after  that, 
until  the  fall  of  the  curtain,  he  seems  a  different  man. 
He  has  proved  his  right  to  be  upon  the  stage. 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  probably  knew  the  powers  of  his 
own  voice.  His  quick  eyes  could  not  fail  to  see  it  written 
upon  the  immovable  features  of  the  big  cold-blooded  Eng- 
lishman opposite  to  him.  Doubtless  this  was  by  no 
means  the  first  time  that  ordinary  every-day  words  had 
gained  something  from  his  enunciation  of  them.  Doubt- 
less Claud  Tyars  was  not  the  first  strong  man  that  this 
small  American  had  fascinated  and  turned  according  to 
his  own  caprice. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  continued,  in  his  slow,  thoughtful  way, 
"that  most  of  us  outsiders,  English,  Americans,  and 
Frenchmen,  are  in  the  habit  of  laughing  a  little  at  these 


88  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

fellows — these  so-called  Nihilists,  Terrorists,  Propagan- 
dists. We  think  them  too  high-flown,  too  dramatic,  too 
mysterious.  But  lately  I  have  begun  to  suspect  that 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  realism  in  it  all.  Smith — why, 

d n  it,  man — Smith  is  painfully  real.  There  is  no 

humbug  about  Smith.  And  most  of  them — all  the  men 
and  women  I  have  had  to  deal  with — are  in  the  same  boat 
as  he." 

Tyars  stopped  him  with  a  quick  gesture  of  the  head,  as 
if  to  intimate  that  all  this  was  no  news  to  him. 

"  Why,"  he  asked  curtly,  "  are  you  showering  all  this 
upon  me  ?  Do  you  think  that  I  am  the  sort  of  fellow  to 
turn  back  ? " 

Easton  laughed  nervously. 

"  Oh  no  !  "  he  answered,  in  an  altered  tone.  Then  he 
turned  in  his  chair,  and  unlocking  a  drawer  in  the  pedes- 
tal of  his  writing-table,  he  drew  forth  several  leather-bound 
books,  which  he  set  upon  the  table  in  front  of  him.  "  Oh 
no!"  he  said,  turning  the  pages.  "Only  you  seemed 
to  be  of  opinion  just  now  that  the  pastime  of  staying  at 
home  and  pulling  strings  had  its  advantages." 

"  So  it  has,"  was  the  cool  reply  ;  "  but  that  in  no  way 
alters  the  case  as  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

"  Then  I  apologize,"  said  Easton,  raising  his  eyes  with- 
out moving  his  head;  "I  thought  .  .  .  perhaps — well, 
never  mind !  " 

"  What  did  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  sort  of  notion  that  some  other  interest  had 
sprung  up — that  you  were  getting  sick  of  all  this  long 
preparation." 

"  And  wished  to  back  out  ?  "  suggested  Tyars,  in  his 
high-bred  indifference. 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  up,  and  their  eyes  met.  A 
strong  contrast — these  two  pairs  of  eyes.  The  one,  large, 


In  the  City.  89 

placid,  intensely  English  ;  the  other  quick,  keen,  and  rest- 
less. Although  Easton's  gaze  did  not  lower  or  flinch,  his 
eyes  were  not  still ;  they  seemed  to  search  from  corner 
to  corner  of  the  large  glance  that  met  his  own. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  ignoring  the  question,  "that  I 
am  getting  a  trifle  skeptical.  I  have  had  more  than  one 
disappointment.  Our  doctor — Philippi,  you  know — has 
been  appointed  sanitary  inspector  to  the  town  of  Lille,  or 
something  equally  exciting.  He  has  intimated  that  while 
fully  sympathizing  with  our  noble  scheme,  he  can  only 
help  us  now  with  his  purse  and  his  prayers.  I  do  not 
know  much  about  his  purse,  but  the  practical  value  of  his 
prayers  will,  I  suspect,  be  small.  I  do  not  imagine  that 
his  devotions  offered  up  at  his  bedside  in  Lille  will  assist 
you  materially  to  steer  through  the  ice  on  a  dark  night  in 
the  sea  of  Kara." 

Tyars  did  not  take  up  the  question  of  the  efficacy  of 
prayer  in  this  case  or  in  general.  As  has  been  intimated, 
he  was  one  of  those  Englishmen  who,  in  their  cultivation 
of  the  virtue  of  independence,  almost  reduce  it  to  a  vice. 
Upon  most  matters  and  most  questions  he  held  decided 
views,  which,  however,  he  felt  in  no  way  moved  to  im- 
part to  others.  He  was  utterly  without  kith  or  kin  in  the 
world,  a  fact  of  which  the  recognition  greatly  influenced 
his  whole  life,  and  being  a  lone  man  he  was  one  of  those 
who  never  see  the  necessity  of  opening  his  soul  to  others. 

"  It  comes,  no  doubt,"  he  said,  half  apologizing  for  the 
French  doctor's  treachery,  "from  his  failure  to  realize 
the  whole  thing.  The  nation  took  up  the  question  of  the 
slave-trade  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  and  that  was 
one  upon  which  there  were  undoubtedly  arguments  upon 
both  sides,  of  equal  weight.  We  are  not  sure  now  that 
the  comparatively  small  proportion  of  the  human  race  vic- 
timized .by  the  slave-trade  has  really  benefited  (at  least 


9o  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

so  a  man  connected  with  its  suppression  has  told  me)  by 
the  action  of  England.  Upon  this  question  there  can  be 
no  doubt  whatever.  The  state  of  Russia  and  her  system 
of  government  is  a  disgrace  to  the  whole  world — yet  the 
whole  world  closes  its  eyes  to  the  fact.  The  Siberian 
exiles,  in  my  estimation,  call  for  more  sympathy  than 
those  thick-skinned,  dense-brained  niggers." 

Easton  said  nothing.  His  father  had  been  a  slave- 
owner, but  the  fact  was  unknown  to  Tyars,  and  he  did 
not  think  it  necessary  to  mention  it.  In  America  a  man 
stands  upon  his  own  legs.  Ancestral  glory  is  of  much  less 
importance  than  in  the  old  country,  and  consequently  the 
possession  of  forefathers  is  a  blessing  held  cheap.  In 
this  matter  Easton  had  no  reason  to  fear  investigation,  for 
his  family  was  of  ancient  standing  in  the  South,  but  he 
never  mentioned  his  forefathers,  immediate  or  remote,  be- 
cause the  subject  had  in  his  eyes  no  importance.  He  was 
an  American,  and  followed  the  custom  of  his  country. 
Had  the  slave-trade  never  been  suppressed  Matthew  Mark 
Easton  would  have  been  one  of  the  richest  men  in  Amer- 
ica. As  it  was,  he  sat  daily  in  this  little  office  in  the  city 
of  London  conducting — to  all  outward  appearance — a  small 
and  struggling  commission  agent's  business.  It  was  some- 
what characteristic  of  the  man  and  his  country  that  Claud 
Tyars  should  be  allowed  to  remain  in  ignorance  of  these 
matters. 

Easton  now  turned  to  the  leather-bound  books,  and  the 
two  men  sat  far  into  the  day  discussing  questions  strictly 
technical  and  strictly  confined  to  the  fitting  out  of  the 
small  vessel  lying  in  the  London  Dock,  for  an  expedition 
to  the  Arctic  Seas.  Even  in  the  discussion  of  these  de- 
tails each  man  retained  his  characteristic  manner  of  treat- 
ing outward  things.  Easton  was  irresponsible,  gay  and 
light,  while  beneath  the  airy  touch  there  lurked  a  truer, 


In  the  City.  91 

firmer  grasp  of  detail  than  is  possessed  by  the  majority  of 
men.  His  queer  little  face  was  never  quite  grave,  even 
while  speaking  of  the  most  serious  matters.  His  manner 
was,  throughout,  suggestive  of  the  forced  attention  of  a 
schoolboy,  ready  to  be  led  aside  at  the  slightest  interrup- 
tion, while  the  relation  of  hard  facts  and  the  detailing  of 
long  statistics  ran  from  his  glib  tongue  without  the  least 
sign  of  effort. 

Claud  Tyars  listened  for  the  most  part,  but  here  and 
there  he  put  in  a  suggestion  or  recalled  a  fact  in  a  quiet 
skilful  way,  which  betrayed  a  mind  singularly  capable  of 
grasping  and  retaining  details  in  such  widespread  variety 
that  greater  things  could  hardly  fail  to  be  influenced  by 
such  a  mass  of  stored-up  knowledge.  Without  formulat- 
ing any  theory,  this  man  seemed  to  take  human  life  more 
as  a  huge  conglomeration  of  details  than  a  comprehensible 
whole.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  such  men  are  riptit 

o 

in  their  estimate  of  human  existence,  for  it  is  these  and 
such  as  these  who  make  a  mark  upon  the  historical  records 
of  the  world.  The  ladder  of  fame  has  crumbled  centuries 
ago.  To  that  high  bourn  there  is  no  ladder  now,  but 
those  who  wish  to  climb  there  will  find  beneath  their  feet 
a  huge  misshapen  rubbish-heap.  This  heap  is  the  accu- 
mulation of  centuries.  Generation  after  generation  has 
shot  its  rubbish  there,  and  for  us  of  later  days  there  is 
nothing  left  but  a  hook  and  basket  with  which  to  rummage 
and  dig  for  good  things  hidden  beneath  the  mass  of  gar- 
bage wherewith  to  build  a  base  to  work  upon. 


92  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SEVEN  MEN. 

MORE  conspiracies  have  failed  from  impecuniosity  than 
from  treachery.  If  a  man  have  money  in  sufficient 
quantity,  secrecy  is  easily  purchased.  Even  if  he  have 
enough  to  buy  a  respectable  coat  he  is  already  on  the  high- 
road to  success.  If  the  conspirators  assemble  in  swallow- 
tail coats  and  white  ties  they  are  almost  free  from  danger. 
Suspicion  fixes  herself  upon  the  impecunious,  the  unfor- 
tunate, the  low  in  station.  She  haunts  the  area-steps  and 
flies  at  the  luxurious  sound  of  carriage  wheels.  She  never 
enters  the  front-door,  but  if  she  wishes  to  reach  the  upper 
floors,  creepeth  up  the  back  stairs.  Under  the  respectable 
shade  of  a  silk  hat,  gloved  and  washed,  any  of  us  may 
trespass  where  he  with  but  a  shabby  coat  and  forlorn 
boots  will  call  down  ignominy  on  his  head.  Well  dressed 
we  may  steal  horses,  shabbily  clad  we  must  not  even  look 
over  walls. 

There  was  in  the  temperament  of  Matthew  Mark  Easton 
that  small  seed  of  aggressive  courage  which  makes  con- 
spirators, agitators,  and  rebels  of  sensible  men.  He  pos- 
sessed all  the  non-conservative  energy  of  his  countrymen, 
with  more  than  their  usual  thoughtfulness.  Although  he 
had  at  different  periods  of  his  life  studied  more  than  one 
grave  social  question,  he  had  not  yet  learnt  to  recognize 
that  the  solution  of  all  such  is  not  in  the  hands  of  individ- 
uals or  even  nations.  The  seed  must  indeed  be  sown 


Seven  Men.  93 

by  individuals,  but  its  growth,  its  welfare  or  fall  is  beyond 
the  influence  of  man. 

During  the  record  that  follows,  of  a  great  scheme  con- 
ceived six  years  ago,  it  may  be  patent  to  the  understand- 
ing of  many  that  Matthew  Mark  Easton  was  not  the  man 
for  the  position  in  which  he  found  himself  placed ;  that 
he  was  in  fact  a  very  round  peg  in  a  geometrically  square 
hole.  But  do  we  not  see  such  pegs  in  such  holes  all 
around  us  ?  Are  we  not,  most  of  us,  in  positions  for 
which  we  are  unsuited  ?  Have  not  the  majority  of  us  at 
times  a  conviction  that  we  are  fit  for  something  better  ? 
Who  has  not  traveled  in  a  first-class  carriage  with  five 
prime  ministers  ?  What  sailor  has  not  hauled  on  the 
slack  of  the  weather-brace  behind  nine  ship-captains  ? 

Had  Easton  been  told  that  he  was  destined  to  play  an 
important  part  in  a  great  conspiracy,  he  would  have  laughed 
his  informant  to  scorn,  and  in  this  he  would  have  been  no 
better  or  worse  than  the  majority  of  us.  He  was  not  by 
any  means  conspicuously  possessed  of  organizing  powers, 
but  was  merely  a  clear-headed,  cool  American,  with  a  fair 
sense  of  enjoyment,  and  a  good  capacity  for  looking  on 
the  brighter  side  of  things  before  the  world  if  not  in  his 
inmost  heart.  A  thin,  slightly-built  man  with  hollow 
cheeks  is  never  an  optimist,  but  he  may  incline  to  the 
brighter  side  while  contemplating  life  with  considerable 
discrimination. 

Under  the  influence  of  such  men  as  Claud  Tyars  and 
Pavloski,  he  was  capable  of  developing  great  energy,  and 
there  is  little  doubt  that  these  two,  unconsciously  working 
together,  forced  the  American  to  assume  a  gradually  in- 
creasing weight  of  responsibility,  to  the  dimensions  of 
which  he  remained  partially  ignorant. 

In  persuading  Tyars  to  espouse  a  cause  of  which  the 
particulars  will  be  hereafter  narrated,  Easton  had,  some 


94  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

years  previously,  unwittingly  cast  his  own  lot  with  that 
cause  to  a  greater  and  fuller  extent  than  his  easy-going 
nature  would  ever  knowingly  have  allowed.  He  had  set 
the  torch  to  a  brand  of  which  the  flames  soon  enveloped 
him.  Meeting  Tyars  at  an  international  aquatic  competi- 
tion, a  friendship  had  sprung  up  between  them,  both  being 
lonely  men  with  no  sisters  or  cousins  to  admire  their 
prowess.  Keen  searchers  into  human  motives  might  be 
inclined  to  aver  that  the  fact  of  their  being  by  no  means 
rivals  had  something  to  do  with  the  formation  of  this  sud- 
den friendship  between  two  reserved  men.  Tyars  was 
entered  to  row  in  the  competition,  while  Easton  had 
brought  his  sailing  canoe. 

It  is  just  possible  that  Easton  was  to  some  extent  carried 
nway  by  his  own  peculiar  eloquence,  which  lay  as  much 
in  intonation  as  in  words.  For  no  man  can  speak  earnestly 
without  feeling  what  he  speaks.  This  is  not  the  first 
time,  I  deem  it,  that  a  man  of  action  has  been  roused  by  a 
man  of  words,  and  in  his  action  has  carried  the  talker  off 
his  feet. 

These  slight  retrogressive  explanations  will  serve  per- 
haps to  make  clear  the  position  of  Matthew  Mark  Easton 
with  regard  to  Claud  Tyars  in  the  events  that  follow.  To 
some  extent  the  outcome  of  these  past  incidents  was  a 
dinner-party  given  by  the  American  one  November  even- 
ing, six  years  ago,  in  his  spacious  rooms  on  the  first  floor 
of  No.  176  Gordon  Street,  Russell  Square.  Of  those 
assembled  some  are  living  to  this  day,  but  others  though 
young  in  years  are  now  dead,  leaving  to  the  survivors 
the  memory  of  a  brave  example,  the  unanswered  question 
of  a  useless  life,  livea  and  lost  without  apparent  benefit  to 
any  concerned. 

There  was  nothing  singular  or  remarkable  about  the 
fare  provided.  It  was  in  fact  supplied  "all  hot"  by  a 


Seven  Men.  95 

neighboring  confectioner ;  but  the  guests  formed  as  unique 
a  collection  of  feasters  as  could  well  be  found  even  in  the 
metropolis  of  England. 

Among  the  first  to  arrive  was  Smith — "  P.  Smith,"  as 
Easton  playfully  called  him.  The  old  young  clerk  of  the 
little  office  in  the  city,  Pavloski  Smith,  was  dressed  in 
irreproachable  swallow-tail  coat  and  white  tie.  His  shirt- 
studs,  however,  were  larger  than  usually  worn  in  the 
best  circles,  and  the  precious  stone  of  which  they  were 
formed  was  amethyst,  which  in  some  degree  stamped  him 
as  a  foreigner  who  had  not  lived  long  in  England. 

He  shook  hands  with  Easton,  bowing  his  gray  head  in 
a  peculiar  jerky  manner,  as  if  they  had  not  parted  at  the 
office  two  hours  before.  They  were  on  different  terms 
here  ;  one  could  see  that  at  once. 

After  him  came  at  intervals  three  men  ;  the  first  elderly 
and  stout,  the  other  two  younger ;  but  all  alike  had  that 
peculiar  repose  of  manner  which  was  especially  noticeable 
in  the  man  called  Pavloski.  They  were  evidently  for- 
eigners, these  men,  but  it  was  not  easy  to  say  whether 
they  were  of  one  nationality.  They  spoke  English  re- 
markably well,  and  made  few  mistakes  in  grammar.  The 
linguistic  fault  possessed  by  all  alike  was  a  certain  labial 
effort,  which  savored  neither  of  the  heavy  deliberation 
of  the  German,  nor  of  the  carelessness  of  the  Gaul. 
Their  tongues  and  lips  seemed  always  to  be  on  the  tra- 
peze, and  a  series  of  tours  deforce  was  the  result.  Their 
English  was  too  colloquial  in  contrast  to  their  accent  and 
tone  of  voice. 

Easton  received  them  with  a  few  words  of  wel- 
come. 

"  Tyars,"  he  said  to  each  in  turn,  "  has  found  a  gentle- 
man who  will  serve  as  first  officer.  He  brings  him  to- 
night." 


96  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"Is,"  inquired  the  stout  man,  who  was  of  a  somewhat 
ceremonious  habit, — "  is  Mr.  Tyars  well  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,  thanks;  at  least  I  surmise  so,"  was  the 
answer. 

The  two  younger  men  heard  the  news  without  comment. 

Without  awaiting  an  invitation,  Pavloski  drew  a  chair 
forward  to  the  hearthrug  and  sat  directly  in  front  of  the 
fire,  holding  his  two  hands  out  towards  the  warmth.  In 
this  position  it  became  evident  that  he  was  a  contemporary 
of  the  two  younger  men,  who  presently  moved  towards 
the  fire,  and  stood  talking  together  in  their  peculiar  Eng- 
lish, while  Easton  and  the  stout  gentleman  exchanged 
meaningless  platitudes. 

The  three  younger  men  had  thus  grouped  themselves 
together,  and  when  placed  in  proximity  there  was  some 
subtle  point  of  resemblance  between  them  which  could 
not  at  first  sight  be  defined.  It  lay  only  in  the  eyes,  for 
in  build  and  complexion  there  was  no  striking  likeness. 
Each  of  these  three  men  had  a  singularly  slow  glance. 
They  raised  their  eyes  to  one's  face  rather  after  the  man- 
ner of  a  whipped  dog,  and  when  looking  up  there  was 
noticeable  a  droop  of  the  lower  lid  which  left  a  space  of 
white  below  the  pupil  of  the  eye.  It  may  be  seen  in 
men  and  women  who  have  passed  through  great  hardship 
or  an  unspeakable  sorrow.  Such  eyes  as  these  speak  for 
themselves.  One  can  tell  at  once  that  they  have  at  one 
time  or  other  looked  upon  something  very  unpleasant. 

It  was  not  yet  seven  o'clock,  but  Easton  appeared  in 
no  way  surprised  or  disconcerted  at  the  early  arrival  of 
his  guests.  He  was  apparently  acquainted  with  the 
etiquette  of  the  nation  to  which  they  belonged.  Presently 
a  servant  entered  the  room  bearing  a  tray  upon  which 
were  bottles  containing  liqueurs,  and  a  few  small  plates 
of  biscuits.  This  was  set  down  upon  a  side-table  and 


Seven  Men.  97 

each  guest  in  turn  helped  himself  without  invitation. 
They  did  this  quite  naturally.  In  Russia  hospitality  is 
differently  understood  and  dispensed. 

While  this  preliminary  course  was  under  discussion, 
the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Tyars  entered  the  room, 
closely  followed  by  Oswin  Grace. 

Strange  to  say  an  introduction  was  necessary  between 
Grace  and  the  American.  Guest  and  host  met  for  the 
first  time.  Then  followed  a  general  introduction,  and  it 
is  worthy  of  note  that  the  three  younger  foreigners  in- 
stantly grouped  themselves  round  the  young  officer. 
Their  taciturnity  was  at  once  laid  aside,  and  they  chatted 
cheerfully  and  intelligently  with  the  stranger  until  dinner 
was  announced. 

There  were  thus  seven  partakers  of  the  good  things 
provided  by  a  neighboring  confectioner — four  Russians, 
two  Englishmen,  and  an  American.  There  had  been  no 
secrecy  about  their  coming;  no  mysterious  taps  at  the 
door,  no  strange-sounding  passwords.  Moreover,  the 
conversation  was  of  a  simple,  straightforward  nature, 
without  dramatic  relief  in  the  way  of  ambiguous  and  ir- 
relevant remarks  respecting  the  length  of  some  allegorical 
night  and  the  approach  of  a  symbolic  dawn.  Some  astute 
reader  has  no  doubt  been  on  the  alert  for  pages  back,  look- 
ing for  these  inevitable  signs  of  a  Nihilistic  novel.  But 
this  is  no  such  novel,  and  these  seven  gentlemen  were 
not  Nihilists.  If  the  motive  that  brought  them  together 
had  nothing  in  common  with  the  maintenance  of  law,  the 
fault  lay  in  the  utter  futility  of  the  law,  and  not  in  their 
desire  to  frustrate  it. 

It  has  already  been  noted  that  Oswin  Grace  had  not 

previously  made  the  acquaintance  of  Easton,  his  host  on 

this  occasion,  and  the  additional  statement  is  worthy  of 

attention  that  Claud  Tyars  had  in  no  way  influenced  the 

7 


98  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

young  sailor.  He  had  merely  handed  him  the  formal  in- 
vitation, adding  that  the  dinner  was  an  excuse  for  calling 
together  a  certain  number  of  men  for  the  purpose  of  lay- 
ing before  them  the  details  of  a  great  scheme.  He  further 
represented  that  an  acceptance  of  the  invitation  was  in  no 
way  binding  as  to  future  movements,  and  in  no  degree 
a  committal  to  enter  into  the  scheme  propounded. 

Upon  this  footing  Oswin  Grace  accepted  the  invitation. 
It  may  appear  that  he  was  inveigled  into  a  wild  scheme 
by  foul  means,  but  to  this  construction  both  Easton  and 
Tyars  were  deliberately  blind.  Claud  Tyars  had  settled 
in  his  own  mind  that  the  naval  officer  was  a  fit  and  good 
man  for  his  purpose,  and  that  appeared  to  be  sufficient 
salve  for  his  own  conscience.  A  man  who  is  fully  ab- 
sorbed in  some  great  plan  and  throws  himself  wholly  and 
entirely  into  it,  must  be  held  free  from  blame  if  he  drag 
others  with  him.  Failure  comes  to  some,  of  course,  and 
we  often  know  not  why  ;  but  most  of  us  have  perforce  to 
shut  our  eyes  to  the  possibility  of  its  advent  all  through 
life.  The  fear  of  responsibility  is  the  greatest  drag  upon 
human  ambition  that  exists,  and  those  men  who  suffer 
from  it  never  make  a  forward  step  in  the  world,  never 
rise  above  the  dense  level  of  mediocrity,  never  leave  the 
ranks  of  those  human  cattle  who  are  content  to  be  dumb 
and  driven  all  their  lives. 

Call  these  seven  men  conspirators  if  you  will.  Denom- 
inate their  meeting  a  conspiracy !  I  can  only  repeat 
that  they  came  in  dress  clothes,  drove  up  to  the  door  in 
hansom  cabs,  and  met  openly. 

After  dinner,  when  cigarettes  had  been  produced,  Eas- 
ton at  last  condescended  to  explanation.  Chairs  had 
been  drawn  round  the  fire ;  the  cigarette-box  stood  upon 
the  mantelpiece,  wine-glasses  and  decanters  on  the  table 
behind.  While  he  spoke,  the  American  kept  his  eyes 


Seven  Men.  99 

fixed  upon  the  fire.  He  smoked  several  cigarettes  during 
the  course  of  his  remarks,  and  at  times  he  moved  his 
limbs  nervously,  after  the  manner  of  one  who  is  more 
highly  strung  than  muscular. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  his  peculiar  slow  drawl,  and 
an  immediate  silence  followed.  "  Gentlemen,  I  asked 
you  to  come  here  to-night  for  a  special  purpose,  and  not 
from  the  warmth  of  my  own  heart."  He  paused,  and 
his  six  listeners  continued  smoking  in  a  contemplative 
way  which  promised  little  interruption.  "What  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  cannot  be  quite  new  to  some,  while  to 
others  I  surmise  that  it  will  be  very  new.  I  won't  apolo- 
gize for  talking  about  myself,  because  it  is  a  thing  I 
always  do. 

"  There  is  a  country  in  the  map  called  the  Dark  Con- 
tinent, but  during  the  last  few  years  it  has  come  under 
my  notice  that  Africa  is  as  light  as  the  heavenly  paths 
compared  to  another  land  nearer  to  this  old  country.  I 
mean  Siberia.  Now,  I  am  not  going  to  talk  about  Siberia, 
because  there  are  four  men  in  this  room  who  know  more 
than  I  do.  In  fact  they  know  too  much,  and  it  would  not 
be  a  gentlemanly  action  to  try  and  touch  the  feelings  of 
some  to  the  discomfort  of  others.  Before  I  go  on  I  will 
explain  for  a  spell  who  we  all  are.  Four  of  us  are  Rus- 
sians. Of  these  four,  one  has  a  wife  living  in  the  Siber- 
ian mines,  condemned  by  mistake  ;  a  second  has  a  father 
living  in  a  convict  prison,  almost  on  the  edge  of  an  Arctic 
sea  ;  a  third  has  been  there  himself.  These  three  under- 
take what  may  be  called  the  desperate  part  of  our  scheme. 
The  fourth  Russian  is  a  gentleman  who  has  the  doubtful 
privilege  of  being  allowed  to  live  in  Petersburg.  His  task 
is  difficult  and  dangerous,  but  not  desperate.  Two  of  us 
are  Englishmen — one  has  given  up  the  ease  and  luxury 
of  the  life  of  a  monied  British  sportsman  ;  has,  in  fact, 


ioo  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

become  a  sailor  for  the  deliberate  purpose  of  placing  his 
skill  at  our  disposal.  In  addition  to  that  he  has  opened 
his  purse  in  a  thoughtless  and  generous  way  which  is  not 
to  be  met  with  in  my  own  country.  Why  he  has  done 
these  things  I  cannot  say.  In  Mr.  Tyars'  position  I  cer- 
tainly should  not  have  done  so  myself.  His  is  the  only 
name  I  mention,  because  I  have  seen  portraits  of  him  in 
the  illustrated  papers,  and  there  is  no  disguising  who  he 
is.  The  rest  of  us  have  names  entirely  unknown,  or 
known  only  to  the  wrong  people.  Some  of  the  Russian 
names,  besides  possessing  this  unfortunate  notoriety,  are 
quite  beyond  my  powers  to  pronounce.  The  second 
Englishman  is  a  naval  officer  who,  having  shared  con- 
siderable danger  with  Mr.  Tyars  on  one  occasion,  may  or 
may  not  think  fit  to  throw  in  his  lot  with  him  again.  His 
decision,  while  being  a  matter  of  great  interest  to  us,  lies 
entirely  in  his  own  hands.  He  is  as  free  when  he  leaves 
this  room  as  when  he  entered  it.  Lastly  comes  my- 
self—" 

The  little  face  was  very  wistful  while  the  thin  lips 
moved  and  changed  incessantly  from  gaiety  to  a  great 
gravity.  The  man's  hollow  cheeks  were  singularly 
flushed  in  a  patchy,  unnatural  way. 

"I,"  he  continued,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  I,  well — I  am 
afraid  I  stay  at  home.  I  have  here  a  doctor's  certificate 
showing  that  I  would  be  utterly  useless  in  any  but  a  tem- 
perate climate.  I  am — consumptive." 

He  produced  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  held  it  in  his 
hand  upon  his  knee,  not  daring  to  offer  it  to  any  one  in 
particular.  There  was  a  painful  silence.  No  one  reached 
out  his  hand  for  the  certificate,  and  no  one  seemed  to  be 
able  to  think  of  something  to  say. 

At  last  the  stout  gentleman  rose  from  his  chair  with  a 
grunt. 


Seven  Men.  101 

"  I  too  stay  at  home,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  breathlessly, 
"and  I  have  no  certificate." 

He  crossed  the  hearthrug,  and  taking  the  paper  from 
Easton's  hand  he  deliberately  threw  it  into  the  fire. 

"There,"  he  grunted;  "the  devil  take  your  certifi- 
cate." 

Then  he  sat  down  again,  adjusting  his  large  waistcoat> 
which  had  become  somewhat  rucked  up,  and  attempted 
to  smooth  his  crumpled  shirt,  while  the  paper  burnt  slowly 
on  the  glowing  coals. 

"  I  only  wished,"  said  Easton,  after  a  pause,  "to  ex- 
plain why  I  stay  at  home.  It  is  no  good  sending  second- 
rate  men  out  to  work  like  this." 

He  paused  and  looked  round.  There  was  something 
critical  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  room,  and  all  the  seven 
men  assembled  looked  at  each  other  in  turn.  Long  and 
searchingly  each  looked  into  the  other's  face.  If  Easton 
had  set  down  the  rule  that  second-rate  men  were  of  no 
avail,  he  had  certainly  held  closely  to  it.  These  were  at 
all  events  first-rate  men.  Not  talkers,  but  actors ;  no 
blusterers,  but  full  of  courage ;  determined,  ready,  and 
fearless.  The  slight  barrier  raised  by  the  speaking  of  a 
different  tongue,  the  thinking  of  different  thoughts,  seemed 
to  have  crumbled  away,  and  they  were  as  brothers. 

There  was  no  seeking  after  dramatic  effect,  no  oath  of 
affiliation.  All  was  conducted  with  reserve  and  calm- 
ness. All  things  spoken  were  said  simply.  They  sat 
there  in  their  immaculate  evening  dress,  smoking  their 
dainty  cigarettes,  sipping  their  wine — as  dangerous  a 
group  of  men  as  a  tyrant  ever  had  to  fear. 

"  Our  plans,"  said  Easton,  "  are  simple.  We  fit  out  a 
ship  to  sail  in  the  spring,  ostensibly  to  attempt  the  North- 
east passage  to  China.  Her  real  object  will  be  the  rescue 
of  a  large  number  of  Russian  political  exiles  and  prisoners. 


IO2  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

The  three  younger  Russians  go  to  Siberia  overland. 
Theirs  is  the  most  dangerous  task  of  all,  the  largest,  the 
most  important.  The  fourth  remains  in  Petersburg  to 
keep  up  communication,  to  forward  money,  food,  disguises, 
and — arms.  Mr.  Tyars  takes  command  of  the  steamer, 
which  is  now  almost  ready  for  sea,  and  forces  his  way 
through  the  ice — God  willing — to  the  Yana  river." 

Easton  stopped  speaking.  He  rose  and  helped  himself 
to  a  fresh  cigarette.  As  he  returned  to  his  seat  he  glanced 
inquiringly  towards  Oswin  Grace,  whose  eyes  had  fol- 
lowed him. 

Grace  removed  the  cigarette  from  his  lips. 

"  Of  course,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  glancing  comprehen- 
sively round  the  group,  "  I  go  with  Mr.  Tyars." 

"  Thanks  !  "  muttered  Claud  Tyars  shortly. 


Misgivings.  103 


CHAPTER  X. 

MISGIVINGS. 

"  OSWIN,"  said  Helen  Grace  in  her  gently  convincing 
way,  "  has  changed." 

Miss  Agnes  Winter,  to  whom  this  remark  was  ad- 
dressed, appeared  somewhat  inclined  towards  contradic- 
tion, but  failed  to  carry  her  impulse  into  practise. 

The  two  ladies  were  seated  in  a  comfortable  drawing- 
room  not  far  from  Brook  Street;  the  drawing-room  of 
Miss  Winter,  who  had  not  yet  decided  upon  giving  up  the 
house  in  which  her  father  had  so  recently  died.  At  least 
she  said  that  she  had  not  yet  decided,  a  statement  which 
her  more  intimate  friends  were  pleased  to  receive  with 
caution.  She  was  not  the  sort  of  person, you  must  under- 
stand, to  hover  long  between  two  opinions  ;  and  when  she 
said  that  her  future  movements  were  not  yet  decided,  her 
keener-sighted  friends  knew  that  she  was  in  reality  desirous 
of  withholding  her  decision  from  public  comment.  Although 
no  longer  a  girl,  she  was  hardly  yet  of  an  age  to  keep  a 
house  of  her  own  and  live  without  an  older  companion. 
She  was  too  beautiful  for  that,  perhaps,  for  beautiful 
women  cannot  be  so  independent  as  their  plainer  sisters. 
All  distinctions  carry  with  them  their  own  responsibilities  ,* 
of  these,  the  chief  are  beauty  and  riches.  Far  above 
genius,  or  purity,  or  goodness,  or  mere  harmlessness  are 
these  two  possessions  in  human  eyes.  Therefore  the 
beautiful  and  the  rich  should  be  very  careful.  The  old 


104  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

proverb  which  says  that  noblesse  oblige  is  now  extinct ;  its 
place  taken  by  the  tacitly  acknowledged  truism  that 
richesse  oblige. 

Miss  Winter  did  not  reply  at  all.  She  read  her  com- 
panion's statement  less  as  an  implied  question  than  as  a 
text  to  a  train  of  thought.  Into  thought  she  now  there- 
fore lapsed,  her  clever  eyes  half  closed,  her  graceful, 
rounded  form  reclining  very  comfortably  in  a  low  chair. 

"  Agnes,"  said  Helen  Grace  again,  with  some  sharp- 
ness, "  I  think  Oswin  has  changed." 

"  Do  you,  my  dear  ?  " 

Each  of  us  is,  of  course,  a  hammer  or  an  anvil,  and 
in  friendships,  in  mutual  work  or  common  sport,  in  love  and 
in  marriage,  each  seeks  out  the  other.  There  is  always 
one  who  talks  and  one  who  listens,  one  who  gives  confi- 
dences and  one  who  receives.  A  Frenchman  has  said  that 
there  is  always  one  who  loves  and  one  who  submits  to 
love,  but  I  will  not  go  so  far  as  that.  We  understand  the 
little  word  differently  on  this  side  of  the  Channel.  There 
are  some  people  who  go  through  the  world  sowing  the 
seeds  of  sympathy  on  all  sides,  gaining  the  love  of  their 
fellows,  earning  the  hatred  perhaps  of  others,  without  lift- 
ing the  veil  of  their  individuality.  Sometimes  this  exclu- 
siveness  is  unconscious  ;  sometimes,  and  more  often  with 
men,  it  is  a  mere  habit  resulting  from  expediency.  Miss 
Agnes  Winter  was,  in  a  sense,  one  of  these  persons. 
Dearly  as  she  loved  her  young  friend,  her  love  did  not 
take  the  form  of  many  confidences,  merely  because  she 
was  strong  enough  to  bear  her  joys  and  sorrows  unaided. 

"Yes,"  continued  Helen  idly  turning  the  pages  of  an 
illustrated  paper  that  lay  on  the  table  near  her.  "  He  is 
different  towards  us  all — more  especially,  perhaps,  towards 
you." 

Miss  Winter's  smooth  cheeks  changed  color  slightly. 


Misgivings.  105 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  her  companion,  until 
she  in  turn  looked  up  and  their  glances  met. 

"  Do  you  not  think  so  ? "  inquired  Helen,  quite  na- 
turally. 

"  No — I  think  not ;  I  have  not  noticed  it.  We  have  al- 
ways been  very  good  friends,  you  know.  We  are  good 
friends  still.  There  cannot  well  be  much  difference. 
People  at  our  age  do  not  drop  old  friendships  or  make  new 
ones  so  suddenly  as  that." 

Helen  returned  to  her  illustrated  paper. 

"  I  think,  you  know,"  she  hazarded  lightly,  "  that 
Oswin  is  not  very  strong.  I  mean  ...  he  is  rather  im- 
pressionable ;  rather  apt  to  be  carried  away  by  an  im- 
pulse conceived  on  the  spur  of  the  moment." 

The  sun  was  shining  in  through  one  of  the  tall  windows, 
in  a  yellow  autumnal  way  directly  on  to  the  fire,  and 
Miss  Winter  rose  to  lower  the  blind.  Then  she  went  to 
the  fire,  and  spent  a  few  moments  with  the  hearth- 
brush. 

"  Oswin  is  not  weak,"  she  said  ;  "  you  are  wrong  there. 
As  men  and  women  go,  he  is  strong.  But — Claud  Tyars 
is  stronger.  Mr.  Tyars  is  very  strong,  Helen.  He  is 
one  of  those  men  who  almost  invariably  influence  all  the 
lives  that  come  in  contact  with  their  own.  They  are  the 
leaven  of  humanity." 

"  Then  you  like  him  ?  " 

Miss  Winter  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  a  manner  indi- 
cating that  her  life,  at  all  events,  was  out  of  Tyars'  influ- 
ence. 

"  I  like  men  to  be  strong — morally.  Great  physical 
strength  generally  finds  itself  accompanied  by  density. 

Then  Claud  Tyars  was  allowed  to  drop.  His  character 
was  not  further  discussed,  although  both  women  thought 
of  him  again  ;  Helen  because  of  his  undoubted  influence 


io6  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

over  her  brother ;  Miss  Winter  because,  as  she  had  said, 
she  liked  men  to  be  strong. 

The  fact  was  that  neither  came  near  to  the  comprehen- 
sion of  his  nature.  Neither  had  hitherto  met  a  man  en- 
tirely absorbed  in  one  idea,  shaping  his  life  daily  and 
hourly  towards  the  accomplishment  of  one  ambition. 
Indeed,  few  of  us  have  met  such  men.  They  are  rare, 
and  consequently  dilettantism  sometimes  makes  a  name. 
Jack-of-all-trades  are  occasionally  looked  upon  as  masters 
of  one,  because  there  are  so  few  of  us  ready  to  put  our 
hands  to  the  plow  and  look  continuously  forward.  We 
seek  to  manipulate  the  pen  and  the  plow-handle,  the 
brush  and  the  sword  ;  and  amidst  many  small  ambitions  no 
great  one  can  thrive.  Of  course  there  are  many  Don  Quix- 
otes in  the  world,  but  even  in  our  Quixotism  we  are  wax- 
ing insincere.  Better  be  Quixote  than  Panza  !  Better 
have  one  aim,  even  if  it  be  a  foolish  one,  and  strive  man- 
fully to  reach  it,  than  many  that  are  not  worth  attaining. 

I  do  not  maintain  that  Claud  Tyars  was  a  man  to  be  ad- 
mired. I  do  not  set  him  up  as  a  hero.  In  the  pages  that 
follow,  his  doings  and  his  words  are  recorded  more  mi- 
nutely than  the  doings  and  words  of  those  brought  into  con- 
tact with  him,  but  it  is  not  because  he  is  deemed  more 
worthy  of  notice,  not  because  he  is  intended  as  an  exam- 
ple to  others.  The  reason  of  it  is  merely  that  he  is 
more  interesting — that  to  some  extent  his  individuality 
occupied  a  center  place  in  the  stage  upon  which  one  more 
act  was  played  of  the  great  drama  slowly  working  itself 
out  in  the  Muscovite  world — a  drama  of  which  few  of  us 
will  live  to  see  the  final  act.  I  confess  that  I  would  fain 
do  so.  I  would  wish  to  be  here  when  the  great  crash 
comes.  There  are  certain  decades  of  the  world's  history 
during  which  it  must  have  been  exciting  even  to  have 
existed.  When  Julius  Cassar  was  in  power,  when  Col- 


Misgivings.  107 

umbus  discovered  a  new  world,  or  even  the  first  decade 
of  the  present  century,  when  the  marvelous  Napoleon 
seemed  to  be  on  the  verge  of  binding  up  the  history  of 
Europe  in  one  volume.  And  in  looking  into  the  future, 
any  man  knowing  aught  of  the  vast  country  of  Russia 
cannot  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  sure  conviction  that 
in  Eastern  Europe  some  great  change  must  supervene. 
Something  must  happen  soon.  Things  cannot  go  on  as 
they  are  going  at  present.  It  is  impossible  to  govern  a 
country  throughout  the  twentieth  century  with  the  cruel 
machinery  of  the  seventeenth.  A  tyrannical  government 
may  stem  the  flow  of  literary  knowledge,  may  persecute 
newspapers,  banish  enlightened  men  and  women,  and 
crush  the  seeds  of  learning ;  but  there  is  one  progress 
which  it  cannot  stem,  and  that  is  the  progress  of  the  hu- 
man mind.  The  little  grains  of  knowledge  are  bound  to 
fall  year  by  year,  day  by  day  ;  they  float  in  the  atmos- 
phere like  the  seeds  of  the  earth,  and  find  a  resting-place 
ultimately.  It  may  only  be  with  years  ;  generations  may 
only  gather  a  little  as  they  pass  away,  but  the  grains 
will  pile  up  in  time,  and  knowledge  will  at  last  have 
weight  and  a  specific  gravity  of  her  own.  For  what  is 
knowledge  but  a  deduction  drawn  here,  an  observation 
made  there,  a  chance  discovery,  or  a  mere  coincident  ? 
And  we  go  on  from  day  to  day  drawing  these  deductions, 
making  those  discoveries,  unconsciously  storing  up  knowl- 
edge. While  life  lasts  the  mind  must  progress ;  while 
generations  pass  away  they  leave  a  little  of  their  experi- 
ence behind. 

No  one  can  tell  when  the  great  crash  will  come.  Claud 
Tyars  at  this  time  thought  it  very  near,  and  in  this  opin- 
ion he  was  not  alone.  But  that  was  five  years  ago.  At 
that  time  there  were  in  Russia  signs  enough  to  justify  the 
common  prediction  of  a  change  impending.  Five  years 


io8  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

have  gone,  and  with  them  many  good  workers,  but  the 
crisis  is  still  delayed.  Indeed,  it  seems  farther  off  than 
ever. 

Despite  this  period  of  rapid  progress,  the  internal  affairs 
of  the  Russian  Empire  excited  at  that  time  no  greater  in- 
terest in  England  than  they  do  to-day.  There  were  then, 
as  there  are  to-day,  a  few  persons  who  watched  events 
from  afar,  but  the  majority  was  as  ignorant  of  Russia]  as 
of  Corinth. 

These  two  English  ladies  were  slowly  becoming  con- 
scious of  an  influence  in  their  surroundings.  There  was 
a  sense  of  purpose  in  the  air.  Since  his  sudden  return 
home  Oswin  Grace  had  been  constantly  with  his  new- 
found friend.  No  explanation  had  been  vouchsafed. 
Their  mutual  interest  or  occupation,  or  whatever  it  might 
be,  had  never  been  fully  identified,  although  it  was  under- 
stood to  be  connected  with  maritime  matters,  presumably 
with  the  wonderful  voyage  of  the  Martial. 

Both  ladies  were  aware  of  the  change  that  had  come 
over  the  young  sailor,  though  Miss  Winter  refused  to  di- 
late upon  the  subject.  Both  had  noticed  the  disappear- 
ance of  a  certain  light-hearted  irresponsibility,  which  was 
partly  constitutional,  and  partly  the  outcome  of  governmen- 
tal service.  This  sense  of  irresponsibility  is  usually  no- 
ticeable in  such  as  are  in  receipt  of  a  certain  stipend  in  re- 
turn for  the  performance  of  certain  duties  rendered  to  the 
government.  The  state  of  mind  of  such  persons  bears  no 
resemblance  to  that  of  a  man  whose  existence  is  constituted 
of  so  many  annual  balances  ;  whose  daily  butter,  so  to 
speak,  varies  in  thickness  according  to  the  state  of  trade,  of 
shipping,  or  of  the  sugar-cane.  I  in  no  manner  wish  to 
cast  disparaging  glances  towards  the  occupants  of  govern- 
ment offices,  or  the  holders  of  government  appointments, 
but  merely  state  in  brotherly  calmness  that  they  are  to  be 


Misgivings.  109 

envied.  The  depression  in  trade  is  a  godsend  to  them, 
because  it  seems  that  the  most  depressed  commodities  are 
socks  and  shirts,  and  other  masculine  habiliments.  In  by- 
gone years,  a  gentleman  in  receipt  of  his  five  hundred  per 
annum  gave  four  shillings  a  pair  for  his  socks — now  he 
can  procure  a  durable  article  for  one  and  six.  These  little 
things  (facts,  not  socks)  make  up  human  life,  and  it  is  to 
this  cause  that  the  invariable  cheerfulness  of  government 
officials,  ex-office  hours,  must  be  attributed. 

Oswin's  pre-occupation  could  in  no  way  be  assigned  to 
professional  matters.  He  had  influence  at  headquarters, 
and  a  very  fair  intelligence  of  his  own.  With  these  two, 
and  a  somewhat  exceptional  record  of  service,  there  was 
no  cause  for  anxiety  as  to  the  future.  While  the  two 
ladies  were  thinking  over  these  things,  the  object  of  their 
thoughts  happened  to  be  standing  on  the  pavement  oppo- 
site to  the  drawing-room  window,  near  which  Miss 
Winter  was  seated.  When  at  length  she  turned  her  head, 
she  unconsciously  betrayed  her  thoughts. 

"  There  is  Oswin,"  she  said,  and  her  surprise  seemed 
greater  than  the  occasion  demanded. 

"  Is  he  coming  in  ?  "  inquired  Helen,  without  moving. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  so.  At  present  he  is  talking  to  two 
men,  one  of  whom  is  Mr.  Tyars  .  .  .  Helen." 

Then  Helen  rose  from  her  chair  and  approached  the 
window,  work  in  hand. 

"  Do  not  let  them  see  you,"  interposed  Miss  Winter, 
stretching  out  her  hand  to  prevent  the  girl's  further  prog- 
ress. 

Helen  stopped,  and  after  a  glance  down  into  the  street 
continued  working  quietly.  She  did  not,  however,  quit 
her  post  of  observation. 

"  Why  not  let  them  see  me,  Agnes?  "  she  inquired  with- 
out much  interest. 


no  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  Because  Oswin  is  sure  to  lo  k  up,  and  if  he  looks  up 
Mr.  Tyars  will  do  the  same.  Then  our  mysterious  friend 
will  take  off  his  hat,  and  he  might  be  constrained  to  come 
in." 

"And,"  suggested  Helen,  lightly,  "you  do  not  want 
him  to  come  in.  Why  not?  " 

Miss  Winter  laughed,  and  then  looked  gravely  into  the 
fire  for  some  moments  before  replying. 

"Not  yet.  I  do  not  want  him  to  come  in  yet,"  she 
said.  "  Because  I  like  him.  Despite  a  slight  feeling  of 
resentment  which  I  cannot  get  rid  of,  I  like  Mr.  Tyars, 
and  I  suppose  he  is  destined  to  become  one  of  our  circle. 
If  that  is  the  case  there  is  plenty  of  time.  He  means  to 
do  it,  and  he  will  do  it  without  help  from  us.  My  ex- 
perience leads  me  to  distrust  friendships  of  rapid  growth. 
They  invariably  come  to  an  untimely  end." 

Helen  allowed  her  hands  to  drop,  and  ceased  working. 
She  looked  down  at  the  three  men,  more  especially  at 
Tyars,  as  if  seeking  a  solution  to  the  questions  suggested 
by  Miss  Winter. 

"Why  should  he  want  to  become  one  of  our  circle  ?" 
she  inquired  innocently ;  and  the  question  caused  Miss 
Winter  to  raise  those  clever  eyes  of  hers  at  last. 

"My  dear,"  replied  the  elder  woman,  "I  do  not 
know." 

There  was  a  certain  ring  in  her  voice  which  seemed 
to  promise  that  the  ignorance  just  acknowledged  was  not 
likely  to  be  of  long  duration.  What  she  really  meant 
was,  that  at  the  moment  she  did  not  know,  but  that  she 
was  fully  determined  to  find  out. 

Of  course  she  suspected.  She  would  not  have  been 
human  had  she  not  done  so.  She  suspected  that  Claud 
Tyars  was  determined  to  become  one  of  their  circle  pre- 
paratory to  becoming  the  husband  of  Helen  Grace.  The 


Misgivings.  1 1 1 

details  of  their  former  meeting  at  Oxford  had  lately  come 
to  her  knowledge.  Small  enough  details  in  their  way, 
but  not  too  insignificant  for  the  attention  of  a  woman  of 
the  world.  A  ball,  a  picnic,  a  flower-show  ;  a  few  words 
exchanged  at  each  are  of  course  trivial  matters.  But  such 
trifles  have  before  now  influenced  many  a  carefully-shaped 
scheme  of  life,  have  undermined  the  loftiest  ambitions, 
have  turned  gloomy  fame  into  sunny  insignificance. 
There  are  many  of  us  who  fully  intended  to  make  a  name 
in  the  world — many  of  us  who  nursed  in  younger  days 
high  aspirations,  noble  ambitions.  And  now  behold  !  we 
are  commonplace ;  hopelessly  commonplace,  and  hope- 
lessly contented.  This,  young  man,  is  woman's  work ! 
Each  latent  genius  among  us  has  been  taken  in  hand  by 
one  woman  ;  shaped,  turned,  twisted,  petted,  scolded, 
spoilt.  And  now  we  all  think  in  our  inmost  hearts : 
"  Oh,  bother  Fame,  avaunt  Ambition."  I  wonder  if  any 
other  person  has  made  the  statement  that  "  Contentment 
is  the  chief est  foe  of  Fame  " — if  not  I  beg  to  apply  for 
copyright. 

Miss  Winter  had  lived  to  see  many  of  her  contempo- 
raries pass  through  this  stage.  Many  of  her  girl  friends 
had  suddenly  ceased  to  crave  for  artistic  and  literary 
fame.  Among  the  sterner  contemporaries  there  were  a 
number  now  who  appeared  to  be  quite  content  with  re- 
munerative commercial  occupations  and  easy  government 
offices.  In  face  of  this  experience  it  was  only  natural  to 
class  Claud  Tyars  among  the  rest,  to  mentally  specify 
him  as  a  man  in  possession  of  certain  faculties  above  the 
average,  and  consequently  as  one  who  at  an  early  period 
had  cherished  ambitions.  These,  like  all  youthful  aspira- 
tions, were  now  fleeing  before  the  practical  thoughtfulness 
of  middle  age.  They  were  giving  place  to  a  comfortable 
desire  for  contentment  and  ease. 


U2  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

This  was  Miss  Winter's  estimate  of  Claud  Tyars. 
The  thing,  she  argued  to  herself,  lay  in  a  nut-shell.  The 
memory  of  Helen  Grace  had  never  quite  left  him.  It  had 
survived  his  young  ambitions,  and  chance  had  done  the 
rest.  Tyars'  peculiar  friendship  for  Oswin  was  a  mere 
means  towards  the  end.  But  this  practical  young  woman 
was  far  too  astute  to  set  down  Claud  Tyars  as  an  ordinary 
man.  There  was  something  about  him  which  she  could 
not  understand.  It  could  not  be  only  his  supposed  love 
for  Helen  that  gave  him  his  singular  air  of  purpose.  Had 
he  been  a  boy  his  whole  being  might  thus  have  been  ab- 
sorbed in  a  first  love,  but  he  was  unquestionably  over 
thirty  years  of  age,  and  men  of  such  years  are  dignified 
even  in  love. 

Agnes  Winter  had  given  greater  thought  to  this  man 
than  she  was  quite  aware  of.  She  was  a  quick  thinker, 
and  while  her  steady  white  fingers  were  employed  in 
work  her  busy  brain  wandered  far  afield.  She  had  sought 
right  and  left  for  a  motive  in  Claud  Tyars'  existence. 
He  was  not  of  a  literary  mind,  she  knew  that.  He  had 
not  roamed  about  the  world  looking  for  something  or 
somebody  to  write  about,  as  many  of  us  do.  He  was  no 
modern  knight-errant  seeking  adventure  by  sea  and  land. 
His  life  now  was  on  the  surface  that  of  a  well-to-do  idle 
man  of  the  world.  He  set  up  his  booth  in  Vanity  Fair  as 
a  lounger,  and  sought  to  impose  upon  the  world.  The 
more  Miss  Winter  meditated  the  stronger  grew  her  con- 
viction that  the  idleness  of  Claud  Tyars  was  a  gigantic 
fraud,  and  when  she  informed  Helen  that  she  would  rather 
that  he  did  not  come  in,  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  she 
had  diverged  slightly  from  the  paths  of  Truth. 


On  the  Track.  113 


CHAPTER  XI. 

ON  THE  TRACK. 

IN  the  meantime  the  three  men  showed  signs  of  a  move. 
Oswin  stepped  a  little  towards  the  edge  of  the  pavement, 
and  in  doing  so  exposed  the  face  and  form  of  the  third 
man  to  the  view  of  the  two  ladies.  This  third  person  was 
Matthew  Mark  Easton,  as  yet  a  stranger  to  Miss  Winter 
and  Helen. 

"  What  a  peculiar-looking  man  !  "  said  Helen  at  once. 
"Who  is  he?" 

Miss  Winter  did  not  know.  She  said  so  indifferently, 
and  then  accorded  him  her  full  attention  for  some  mo- 
ments. 

"  A  friend  of  Mr.  Tyars,  I  suppose,"  she  said  at  length. 
"  He  is  like  a  very  gentlemanly  monkey." 

Oswin  was  evidently  persuading  Tyars  to  come  with 
him  to  call  on  Miss  Winter,  and  Tyars  was  with  equal  evi- 
dence refusing.  Muggins,  the  dog,  stood  a  little  apart 
looking  up  to  his  master's  face  with  visible  impatience. 

"  Come,"  he  seemed  to  say,  "  let  us  go  on.  This  is 
not  like  us  to  dawdle  away  our  time  in  vain  disputings." 

Then  he  turned  and  walked  on  a  little  with  great  dignity, 
as  if  there  could  be  no  question  about  his  master  following 
meekly. 

At  length  Oswin  gave  up  persuading,  and  with  a  nod 
left  the  two  men  to  continue  their  way. 

Helen  and  Miss  Winter  had  watched  this  pantomime 


H4  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

without  comment,  and  its  issue  called  forth  no  remark. 
They  merely  drew  back  into  the  room  and  recommenced 
their  work. 

Oswin  Grace  was  shown  in  a  moment  later.  He  shook 
hands  with  Miss  Winter  and  accorded  to  his  sister  a  little 
nod,  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  her  presence  had  been 
expected. 

"  It  is  nice/'  he  said,  rubbing  his  brown  hands  cheerily, 
"to  see  a  fire.  Outside  it  is  simply  suicidal.  Such 
weather  almost  justifies  the  laying  of  violent  hands  upon 
oneself — just  about  this  time  in  the  afternoon.  I  should 
do  it  myself  were  I  deprived  of  this  fire,  your  society,  and 
the  anticipation  of  tea." 

"  Ring  the  bell  then,"  replied  Miss  Winter,  "  and  your 
anticipation  shall  be  realized." 

The  young  sailor  obeyed,  and  returned  to  his  station  upon 
the  hearthrug  with  that  breezy  energy  which  can  only  be 
tolerated  in  small  men.  A  large,  energetic  man  is  a  nui- 
sance and  an  anomaly. 

"  I  have,"  he  said,  "  just  left  Tyars." 

It  was  a  pity  that  he  involuntarily  glanced  towards  the 
window,  because  both  ladies  saw  it,  and  the  action  be- 
trayed the  small  fact  that  his  failure  to  mention  the  pres- 
ence of  a  third  person  was  intentional.  We  all  make 
these  little  mistakes  at  times,  even  the  most  diplomatic  of 
us.  We  are  apt  to  take  it  for  granted  that  our  neighbors 
see  just  as  much  as  we  wish  them  to  see,  and  no  more. 

Of  course  this  suppression  was  fatal.  It  had  the  nat- 
ural effect  of  arousing  the  curiosity  of  both  women,  and 
the  curiosity  of  a  woman  of  the  world  is  a  thing  of  which 
I,  for  one,  am  most  reprehensively  afraid. 

In  her  own  mind  Miss  Winter  pigeon-holed  the  gentle- 
manly little  man  of  unprepossessing  exterior  as  a  person 
to  be  investigated.  She  promptly  leapt  to  the  conclusion 


On  the  Track.  115 

that  this  man  was  in  some  way  connected  with  Claud 
Tyars  and  Claud  Tyars'  possible  purpose  in  life. 

"  When,"  she  asked,  innocently,  "  is  Mr.  Tyars  going 
to  sea  again  ?  " 

Oswin  Grace  changed  color.  The  brown  sunburn  had 
vanished  to  a  certain  extent  during  the  gloom  of  the  last 
few  weeks,  and  beneath  it  the  little  sailor's  skin  was  soft 
and  delicate  ;  the  sort  of  skin  that  blushes  easily. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  with  forced  gaiety,  "  I  have 
never  asked  him.  One  is  apt  to  forget  that  he  ever  was 
a  sailor  when  he  has  a  frock-coat,  a  top-hat,  and 
gloves." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  he  ever  was  a  real  sailor,"  said 
Miss  Winter,  casually.  "  He  may  have  navigated  a  ship, 
and  boxed  the  compass,  or  taken  in  the  weather-brace,  or 
whatever  sailors  do  at  sea,  but  I  do  not  call  him  a 
sailor." 

Oswin  Grace  laughed  and  murmured — 

"  Perhaps  not!  "  Then  he  changed  the  subject  with 
evident  relief.  "  Ah,  here  is  tea.  Since  I  came  home  I 
have  taken  to  tea  and  thin  bread-and-butter  like  a  music- 
master." 

Miss  Winter  dispensed  the  luxuries  just  mentioned  with 
deft  celerity,  and  then  she  returned  to  the  original  ques- 
tion with  the  calm  assurance  of  one  knowing  herself  to 
have  no  diplomatic  rival  to  fear. 

"I  should  say,"  she  observed,  cunningly,  "that  you 
are  an  infinitely  better  sailor  than  Mr.  Tyars." 

Oswin  rose  to  the  gaudy  bait  at  once,  with  that  same 
eagerness  which  you,  my  brother,  and  I  display  when  a 
pretty  woman  flatters  our  vanity. 

"Oh  no,"  replied  he,  unguardedly;  "I  do  not  think 
so.  He  is  one  of  the  boldest  sailors  I  have  ever  met  with  ; 
no  man  carries  on  like  Tyars,  but  .  .  ." 


n6  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  Carries  on  !  "  interrupted  Miss  Winter,  with  a  laugh. 
"  I  should  not  have  taken  him  for  that  sort  of  man." 

"  Carries  sail  at  night,  I  mean,"  explained  the  young 
fellow. 

"  Ah,  I  see.     Will  you  have  some  more  tea  ?  " 

After  she  had  poured  out  a  fresh  cup  she  returned  to  the 
charge,  casting  a  quick  glance  towards  Helen,  who  was 
working  with  extraordinary  enthusiasm. 

"  You  said  'but'  just  now,"  she  observed.  "What 
was  the  sequence  of  that  suggestive  '  but'  ?  " 

Oswin  Grace  appeared  quite  willing  to  talk  now.  His 
reserve  was  not  proof  against  Miss  Winter's  unscrupulous 
approaches. 

"  Well,"  he  answered  slowly,  as  if  considering  his  re- 
marks, "  I  think  it  is  that  he  has  not  known  failure.  He 
appears  to  have  been  invariably  successful." 

"More  people,"  said  Miss  Winter,  in  her  decisive  way, 
"  have  come  to  grief  through  success  than  through  fail- 
ure." 

"  At  any  rate,"  corrected  Helen,  without  looking  up, 
"  more  have  come  to  grief  after  success  than  after  failure." 

"  Not  that  I  think  that  Tyars  will  come  to  grief  at  all," 
said  Oswin,  hastily  and  unguardedly.  He  stopped  short, 
and  there  was  an  awkward  pause  for  a  moment.  Both 
ladies  were  working  with  a  suspicious  indifference  to  the 
conversation. 

"I mean,"  he  continued,  more  calmly,  "that  he  will 
probably  succeed  all  through  life  in  whatever  he  under- 
takes. To  me  his  tactics  seemed  a  trifle  too  bold,  but 
then  they  invariably  proved  successful.  I  suppose  the 
truth  is  that  I  am  not  a  genius,  while  Tyars  is.  Tyars  is 
distinctly  a  genius ;  he  has  a  most  wonderful  power  of 
organization.  Have  you  ever  noticed  his  memory  ?  " 

"Ye — es,"    acquiesced  Miss    Winter,    threading   her 


On  the  Track.  117 

needle.  "  It  is  a  singular  memory  ;  and  I  suppose  mem- 
ory is  a  gift  which  cannot  lie  fallow  like  others — like  sing- 
ing, or  writing,  or  painting.  It  must  be  always  at  work, 
and  one  never  knows  when  it  may  come  to  the  fore." 

Oswin  Grace  had  no  taste  for  the  deeper  researches  of 
human  science. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose  so.  As  for  me,  I  have  no 
memory  at  all.  In  fact,  all  my  gifts  lie  fallow ;  they  are 
of  the  unobtrusive  kind,  so  unobtrusive,  in  fact,  that  their 
presence  is  not  even  suspected  of  the  multitude." 

There  are  some  people  who  shirk  the  responsibility  laid 
upon  us  so  explicitly  in  the  parable  of  a  certain  steward. 
They  think  to  disarm  investigation  by  denying  the  pos- 
session of  talents.  Of  course,  if  one  is  without  talents — 
there  you  are  !  What  can  be  expected  ?  One  cannot  be 
blamed  for  the  abuse  of  talents  which  one  is  deprived  of. 
The  trick  is  a  simple  one — confess  honestly  and  frankly 
that  you  are  a  stupid  person,  without  gifts,  without  intellect. 
The  general  world  will  think  none  the  worse  of  you,  and 
confession  naturally  entails  absolution.  You  are  absolved 
from  all  responsibility  or  blame  ;  your  petty  vices  are  laugh- 
ingly forgiven,  and  you  are  considered  to  be  a  nice,  natural, 
human  person — very  human.  No  one  asks  you  to  become 
his  executor ;  trusteeships  are  not  forced  upon  you,  and 
your  female  relatives  never  ask  your  advice  respecting  their 
investments.  You  jog  along  very  comfortably,  avoiding  the 
rougher  side  of  the  road,  while  people  make  room  for  you 
in  smoother  places  because,  forsooth,  you  are  a  fool. 
For  the  same  reason  your  aged  aunt  leaves  you  her  little 
all.  Your  want  of  wit  calls  down  charity  from  all  sides, 
and  you  live  very  comfortably  on  the  proceeds  without 
recognizing  the  humiliation  of  it. 

Of  course  this  is  the  strongest  view  of  the  case.  It  re- 
quires very  clever  foolishness  to  get  on  so  well  in  the 


n8  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

world,  and  Oswin  Grace  had  neither  the  power  nor  the 
inclination  to  reach  such  an  ultimatum.  He  was  far  back 
in  the  rear-rank,  but  in  his  small  way  he  shirked  much, 
and  received  much  absolution  by  freely  confessing  to  faults 
that  were  in  part  imaginary. 

In  his  intercourse  with  Miss  Winter  this  engaging  frank- 
ness respecting  his  own  merits  had  always  had  a  place. 
There  was  none  of  that  subtle  self-laudation  with  which 
most  of  us  seek  to  attract  the  esteem  or  love  of  the  fair 
sex.  The  knights  did  it  of  old.  They  must  have  done 
so,  else  had  there  been  no  record  of  doughty  deeds,  of 
knights  and  servitors  cleft  to  the  shoulder.  This  is  a  cer- 
tainty, and  if  any  one  wish  to  prove  it,  let  him  put  his 
head  inside  a  cask.  He  will  soon  discover  that  through 
steel  bars  one  can  see  remarkably  little  of  one's  neigh- 
bor's doings. 

We  sing  our  own  praises  to-day  in  the  same  manner. 
Does  any  one  of  us  confess  to  his  partner  at  a  ball  that  he 
cannot  row,  or  ride,  or  play  lawn-tennis  ?  No  ;  we  ac- 
knowledge modestly  that  we  are  adepts  at  all  manly  sports 
and  pastimes  ;  we  insinuate  that  we  are  dead  shots,  and 
allow  it  to  be  gathered  that  in  the  hunting-field  we  lead 
the  way.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  our  fair  listeners  gener- 
ally believe  us,  especially  if  we  interlard  our  statements 
with  more  or  less  plainly  expressed  assurances  that  all 
these  manly  accomplishments  are  slaves  to  their  bright 
eyes. 

Wherever  he  may  have  warbled  his  own  praises, 
Oswin  Grace  never  did  so  for  the  edification  of  Miss 
Winter.  Their  relationship  was  not  of  that  description. 
She  was  rather  older  than  he,  and  between  two  young 
people  a  difference  of  this  sort  goes  on  increasing  its  influ- 
ence as  they  advance  in  years. 

As  Helen  had  told  her  friend  plainly,  there  was  a  dif- 


On  the  Track.  119 

ference  in  Oswin's  manner,  but  this  difference  was  not 
openly  investigated.  There  could,  however,  be  only  one 
explanation  of  it,  and  both  women  seized  upon  this  un- 
hestitatingly. 

The  youthful  infatuation  had  given  place  to  a  maturer 
affection,  which  in  no  way  savored  of  love.  Whatever 
place  Agnes  Winter  had  at  one  time  occupied  in  the  heart 
of  the  young  sailor,  she  was  now  naught  else  but  a  friend. 
And  for  this  alteration  he  had  sufficient  excuse — as  ex- 
cuses go.  It  was  really  the  wisest  thing  he  could  have 
done  to  acknowledge  thus  at  once  the  difference  brought 
about  by  a  few  years'  absence.  These  years  had  ren- 
dered more  obvious  the  fact  that  Agnes  Winter  was  con- 
siderably his  senior,  and  to  his  more  experienced  eyes 
this  discrepancy  now  assumed  its  rightful  significance. 
So  argued  each  lady  in  turn  to  herself,  while  Oswin 
Grace  chattered  gaily  first  to  one  and  then  to  the  other. 

Helen  was  not  subtle  enough  to  attach  importance  to  a 
small  detail  which  had  almost  vanished  from  her  memory. 
She  had  detected  at  the  first  meeting  of  Claud  Tyars  and 
Miss  Winter  signs  of  jealousy  on  the  part  of  her  brother. 
These  the  young  sailor  had  suppressed  as  well  as  he  could, 
but  the  gentle  scrutiny  of  his  sister  had  penetrated  through 
the  veil  of  his  reserve.  This  jealousy  was  now  conspic- 
uously absent.  Oswin  seemed  to  find  pleasure  in  talk- 
ing of  Tyars  to  Miss  Winter. 

Now  jealousy  is  a  passion  that  never  dies.  While  the 
cause  of  it  is  at  hand,  it  lives  and  thrives.  Helen  noticed 
this  absence,  and  it  served  in  some  degree  to  confirm  her 
conviction  that  her  brother  had  ceased  to  love  Miss  Winter. 
She  did  not  know  that  dead  love  or  dying  love  is  un- 
touched by  jealousy.  She  did  not  know  that  jealousy 
must  assuredly  die  long  before  love,  and  not  shortly  be- 
fore. She  did  not  know  that  a  youthful  infatuation,  under 


I2O  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

its  more  dignified  name  of  a  first  love,  is  a  thing  that 
perishes  more  often  in  proximity  than  in  absence. 

Miss  Winter  might  have  known  more  about  these  mat- 
ters had  she  been  able  to  take  note  of  them  from  Helen's 
point  of  view.  She  was,  however,  the  object  of  Oswin's 
short-lived  jealousy,  and  had  therefore  failed  to  notice  it. 
She  was  too  experienced,  possessed  too  much  self-respect, 
to  allow  any  person  to  guess  that  she  also  detected  a  dif- 
ference in  Oswin's  manner  towards  herself.  This  fact 
alone  betrayed  that  she  assigned  the  same  reason  to  the 
change  as  that  assigned  by  Helen  Grace. 

She  made  no  sign  whatever ;  no  slightest  difference  in 
her  treatment  of  Oswin.  Whether  there  had  been  pleas- 
ure for  her  in  the  knowledge  of  this  man's  silent  love,  or 
mere  indifference,  it  is  hard  to  say.  Women  of  thirty 
who  have  lived  every  year,  every  day  of  their  life  since 
twenty,  hold  different  views  of  the  great  universal  human 
Motive  than  those  held  by  young  girls.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain independence,  a  confidence  in  the  possession  of  the 
power  of  inspiring  love,  in  beautiful  girls,  which  is  never 
found  in  beautiful  women.  Hence  if  the  latter  are  desir- 
ous of  still  exercising  this  great  feminine  pleasure  and 
delight,  they  are,  as  a  rule,  not  only  pathetic  objects,  but 
disagreeable  ones  to  contemplate.  Thus  it  is  that  a  plain 
woman  of  thirty  to  forty  is  a  pleasanter  companion,  a 
better  woman,  and  a  more  profitable  study  than  one  who 
is  or  has  been  beautiful. 

But  the  better  women — those  who  make  life  into  an 
unconscious  happiness — have,  by  the  age  of  thirty,  for 
one  reason  or  another,  laid  aside  that  instinctive  desire 
to  inspire  love  which  leads  us  sterner  creatures  such  a 
dance.  Or  if  they  have  not  laid  it  quite  aside,  they  have 
learnt  to  control  it,  and  thus  render  it  harmless  to  those 
around  them. 


On  the  Track.  121 

Miss  Winter  had  reached  that  age  at  which  both  men 
and  women  begin  to  wonder  less  acutely  whether  their 
life  is  endowed  with  an  object.  She  was  therefore  a  con- 
tented creature ;  contented  with  small  pleasures  and 
trivial  occupations ;  unharassed  by  great  ambitions,  un- 
disturbed by  envy,  untouched  by  jealousy.  No  outward 
influence  seemed  capable  of  affecting  her  gentle  serenity. 
Admiration  caused  no  flutter  within  her  heart.  She  had 
tasted  it  too  often,  drinking  it  deeply.  She  was  only 
thirty,  and  when  she  wished  she  could  make  herself  look 
much  younger,  for  her  figure,  though  smoothly  rounded, 
was  lithe,  and  her  cheeks  were  still  soft  and  full.  But, 
as  I  have  said,  she  had  lived  every  day  of  the  last  ten 
years.  She  had  never  been  a  thoughtless  coquette  ;  the 
pleasures  of  a  pleasure-seeking  existence  had  been  soberly 
accomplished.  There  may  have  been  a  reason  for  it — I 
find  there  is  a  reason  for  most  things  in  the  world.  Per- 
haps she  had  made  some  great  mistake  at  the  very  out- 
set, moving  onward  subsequently  dazed  and  hesitating. 
It  may  be  that  the  serenity  of  her  heart  was  only  that 
forced  calm  which  is  ordered  for  invalids.  But  this  I  can- 
not say.  The  foregoing  ten  years  have  no  place  here. 
We  must  take  Agnes  Winter  as  we  find  her.  A  cheery 
woman  of  the  world,  terribly  practical,  sometimes  almost 
cynical,  quite  unassailable  behind  her  smooth,  bright 
armor  of  worldly  serenity. 


122  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

CARTE  AND  TIERCE. 

IT  was  almost  a  month  later  that  Matthew  Mark  Easton 
stepped  fairly  into  the  circle  of  which  Miss  Winter  was 
to  a  certain  extent  the  leading  spirit.  This  lady  had  not 
been  five  minutes  in  the  brilliantly-lighted  rooms  of  a  huge 
picture  gallery  in  Pall  Mall,  before  she  singled  out  the 
little  American.  He  happened  to  be  talking  to  another 
insignificant,  unobstrusive  man,  who  tugged  nervously 
at  a  gray  mustache  while  he  listened.  This  was  one  of 
the  ablest  envoys  ever  accredited  to  the  Court  of  St. 
James  by  the  United  States. 

Miss  Winter  knew  most  of  the  faces  in  the  room,  and 
among  others  that  of  the  American  Minister.  Moreover, 
she  recollected  perfectly  the  form  and  features  of  Matthew 
Mark  Easton. 

The  occasion  was  a  vast  assembly  of  the  fashionable, 
diplomatic,  artistic,  and  literary  worlds  for  the  collection 
of  money  and  ideas  towards  the  solution  of  a  social  problem 
now  happily  almost  forgotten.  That  the  majority  of  those 
assembled  did  not  care  a  rap  for  the  social  problem  was 
nothing  surprising.  In  this  they  were  only  symbolic  of 
the  rest  of  mankind.  Very  few  of  us  do  trouble  our 
heads  about  social  problems.  We  leave  them  to  those 
acrimonious  and  long-winded  gentlemen  who  write  for 
the  reviews.  The  tickets  were  a  guinea  each  ;  there  were 
choice  refreshments  at  a  stated  and  ruinous  price ;  soft 


Carte  and  Tierce.  123 

carpets,  an  exhibition  of  pictures,  and  the  same  of  dresses. 
I  believe  also  that  several  gentlemen  read  papers  on  the 
subject  under  discussion,  but  that  was  in  the  small  room 
at  the  end  where  no  one  ever  went. 

Claud  Tyars  was  there  of  course.  During  the  last 
month  or  two  he  had  been  going  out  so  much  that  one 
almost  expected  to  meet  him,  just  as  one  expects  to  meet 
certain  well-known  faces  at  every  assembly.  Miss  Winter 
saw  him  immediately  after  noticing  Matthew  Mark  Easton, 
and  before  long  he  began  to  make  his  way  across  the  room 
towards  her.  Wherever  they  had  met  during  the  last  few 
weeks,  Tyars  had  invariably  succeeded  in  exchanging  a 
few  words  with  Miss  Winter,  seeking  her  out  with  equal 
persistence,  whether  Helen  Grace  were  with  her  or  no. 
If,  as  the  lady  opined,  he  was  determined  to  become  one 
of  their  intimate  friends,  he  displayed  no  indecent  haste, 
no  undue  eagerness ;  and  in  so  doing  he  was  perhaps 
following  the  surest  method.  He  had  not  hitherto  showed 
the  slightest  desire  to  cross  the  line  which  separates  ac- 
quaintanceship from  friendship. 

There  was  a  mutual  attraction  existing  between  these 
two  capable,  practical  people,  who  met  to-night  as  they 
usually  did  with  that  high-toned  nonchalance  which  almost 
amounts  to  indifference.  There  was  a  vacant  seat,  for  a 
wonder,  beside  Miss  Winter  which  Tyars  promptly  ap- 
propriated. 

"Who,"  she  asked,  after  a  few  conventionalities  had 
been  exchanged,  "  is  that  gentleman  talking  to  the  Amer- 
ican Minister,  and  apparently  making  him  laugh,  which  is, 
I  should  think,  no  easy  matter  ?  " 

"  He  is  generally  making  some  one  laugh,"  replied 
Tyars.  "  His  name  is  Easton — Matthew  Mark  Easton. 
The  sort  of  name  that  sticks  in  the  wheel-work  of  one's 
memory.  A  name  one  does  not  forget." 


124  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  And,"  added  Miss  Winter,  lightly,  "a  face  that  one 
does  not  forget.  He  interests  me — a  little." 

Tyars  laughed  atthe  qualification  implied  by  the  addition 
of  the  last  two  words. 

"  That  is  always  something,"  he  said.  "  A  small 
mercy.  He  is  one  of  my  greatest  friends — may  I  intro- 
duce him  ? " 

"  Certainly,"  murmured  the  lady,  with  a  little  bow  of 
the  head,  and  then  she  changed  the  subject  at  once. 

"  Helen,"  she  said,  "  is  not  here  to-night." 

Tyars  looked  befittingly  disappointed. 

"She  does  not  always  care  to  leave  the  admiral,  and 
he  objects  to  dissipation  on  a  large  scale.  Is  that  not 
so? "  he  suggested. 

"  Yes.     That  is  the  case  to-night." 

She  wondered  a  little  at  his  intimate  knowledge  of 
Helen's  thoughts,  but  said  nothing.  It  was  probable  that 
he  had  heard  this  from  Oswin,  and  his  singular  memory 
had  retained  it. 

"Miss  Grace,"  said  Tyars,  presently,  "  has  a  strong 
sense  of  duty,  and  is  unconscious  of  it.  An  unconscious 
sense  of  duty  is  one  of  the  best  of  human  motives.  At 
least  it  seems  so  to  me." 

Although  Agnes  Winter  was  bowing  and  smiling  to  an 
old  lady  near  at  hand,  she  had  followed  him  perfectly. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  "  a  sense  of  duty  of  any  de- 
scription is  not  a  bad  thing  in  these  times.  Indeed,"  she 
added,  turning  suddenly  towards  him,  "  a  motive  is  in 
itself  rather  rare.  Not  many  of  us  have  motives." 

Her  manner  implied  as  plainly  as  if  she  had  spoken  it : 
"  We  are  not,  all  of  us,  like  you." 

There  was  something  in  the  expression  of  his  eyes  that 
recalled  suddenly  their  first  meeting  atthe  precise  moment 
when  he,  entering  the  drawing-room,  overheard  a  remark 


Carte  and  Tierce.  125 

of  hers  respecting  himself.  It  was  not  an  unpleasant  ex- 
pression, but  it  led  one  to  feel  instinctively  that  this  man 
might  under  some  circumstances  be,  what  is  tersely  called 
in  France,  difficult.  It  was  merely  a  suggestion,  cloaked 
beneath  his  high-class  repose  of  manner,  but  she  had 
known  many  men  of  his  class,  some  of  whom  had  made  a 
name  in  their  several  callings,  and  this  same  suggestion  of 
stubbornness  had  come  beneath  her  quick,  fleeting  notice 
before. 

He  looked  gravely  round  the  room,  as  if  seeking  to  pen- 
etrate beneath  the  smiles  and  vapid  affectation. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  placidly,  "  I  am  not  so  sure.  There  are 
a  good  many  people  who  pride  themselves  upon  steering  a 
clear  course.  The  prevailing  motive  to-night  is  perhaps 
a  desire  to  prove  a  superiority  over  one's  neighbors,  but 
it  is  still  a  motive." 

Miss  Winter  looked  at  him  critically. 

"  Remember,"  she  said,  warningly,  "  that  this  is  my 
element.  The  motives  of  all  these  people  are  my  mo- 
tives— their  pleasures,  my  pleasures — their  life,  my  life." 

"  Apparently  so,"  he  replied,  ambiguously. 

"So  that,"  she  pursued,  "  I  am  indicted  of  the  crime 
of  endeavoring  to  prove  my  superiority  over  my  neigh- 
bors." 

He  laughed  in  an  abrupt  way. 

"  No  more  than  myself." 

"  That  is  mere  prevarication,"  she  persisted  gaily. 
"  Tell  me,  please,  in  what  particular  this  coveted  supe- 
riority lies." 

"  In  a  desire  to  appear  more  aimless  than  you  are,"  he 
returned  gravely. 

She  laughed. 

"  I  deny  that.  I  plead  not  guilty,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
a  person  of  many  motives,  but  the  many  receive  their  life 


126  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

from  one  source.  That  one  source  is  an  earnest  endeavor 
to  please  myself  in  all  things,  to  crowd  as  much  pleasure 
and  as  much  excitement  into  a  lifetime  as  it  will  hold." 

"  Then,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  you  are  only  one  of 
the  crowd  after  all." 

"  That  is  all,  Mr.  Tyars.  Did  you  ever  suspect  me  of 
being  anything  else  ?" 

"  I  believe  I  did,"  he  replied,  with  a  more  direct  gaze 
than  is  allowed  by  the  dictates  of  polite  society. 

She  returned  the  gaze  with  serenity. 

"  Then  please  get  rid  of  the  idea,"  she  said  signifi- 
cantly. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  but  it  was  not  the  silence  of 
people  who  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  each  other.  It 
was  too  tense,  too  restless  for  that. 

"Shall  I,  "  inquired  Tyars,  rising  suddenly,  "go  and 
find  Easton  ?  I  should  like  you  to  know  him." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy,"  she  said,  with  one  of  her 
gracious  little  bows.  As  he  moved  away,  she  called 
him  back  almost  as  if  she  were  loth  to  let  him  go,  as  if 
there  were  something  still  left  unsaid  between  them. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  in  a  gaily  confidential  tone,  "  be- 
fore you  go,  what  is  his  speciality.  I  always  like 
to  know  a  stranger's  chief  characteristic,  or  if  he  has 
no  characteristics,  his  particular  hobby — whether,  I  mean, 
he  is  a  botanist  or  a  yachtsman,  a  fisherman  or  a  politician. 
It  is  so  much  more  convenient,  you  understand,  to  know 
beforehand  upon  what  topics  one  must  conceal  one's 
ignorance." 

She  finished  with  a  little  laugh,  and  looked  up  into  his 
face  with  keen  worldliness. 

The  meaning  of  the  glance  was  obvious,  and  he  met 
her  gaze  with  significant  coolness. 

"  No,  Miss   Winter,"    he  said   deliberately  ;    "  you 


Carte  and  Tierce.  127 

have  not  found  out  my  particular  hobby  or  my  chief  char- 
acteristic yet." 

She  laughed  without  embarrassment. 

"Not  yet,"  she  admitted. 

Then  he  returned  to  the  original  question. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  Easton  has  no  hobbies.  His 
speciality  is  eloquence.  He  could  almost  persuade  a  cer- 
tain stubborn  quadruped  to  part  with  its  hind  legs.  He 
was  destined  by  the  positive  department  of  Providence 
for  an  orator,  but  the  negative  department,  with  its  usual 
discrimination,  gave  him  a  weak  chest,  and  therefore  he 
is  nothing." 

"  Absolutely  nothing  ?  " 

"Well,"  answered  Tyars,  "he  is  an  American  mer- 
chant." 

She  nodded  her  head  in  a  practical  way. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  Now  I  know  something  of 
him.  I  have  to  conceal  beneath  wreathed  smiles  the  fact 
that  I  know  absolutely  nothing  of  American  commerce, 
American  politics,  or  oratory.  I  wonder,"  she  added  as 
an  afterthought,  "  whether  there  is  anything  he  can  per- 
suade me  into  doing." 

"  He  might,"  suggested  Tyars,  "  persuade  you  into 
the  cultivation  of  a  motive." 

Then  he  turned  and  left  her. 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  saw  him  approaching,  and  broke 
off  rather  suddenly  a  waning  conversation  with  his  Min- 
ister. 

"  Easton,"  said  Tyars,  "  come  here.  I  want  to  intro- 
duce you  to  Miss  Winter." 

"Miss  Winter,"  returned  the  American;  "ominous 
name.  Who  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  person  of  considerable  influence  in  the  Grace 
household.  Do  you  understand  ?" 


128  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  No,"  replied  Easton,  pleasantly,  "  I  don't." 

"  It  is  in  Miss  Winter's  power  to  deprive  us  of  Oswin 
Grace,"  explained  Tyars,  "  if  she  cares  to  exercise  that 
power." 

Easton's  face  expressed  somewhat  ludicrously  a  passing 
consternation. 

"  Hang  these  women  !"  he  muttered.  "Does  she," 
he  inquired,  "  suspect  something  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  was  the  reply,  "  and,  moreover,  she  is  a 
clever  woman  ;  so  be  careful." 

Easton  laughed  reassuringly.  He  was  not  afraid  of 
clever  women.  Miss  Winter  must  almost  have  heard  the 
laugh,  while  there  was  still  a  smile  on  his  face  as  he  bowed 
before  her. 

"  I  have  never,"  he  said,  as  he  seated  himself,  "  been 
at  an  entertainment  of  this  description  before.  I  am  only 
a  beginner.  In  our  country  we  manage  things  differently  ; 
and  I  cannot  yet  understand  how  so  much  talking  and  so 
little  action  can  benefit  any  cause." 

"  But,"  said  Miss  Winter,  "  you  are  not  new  to  Eng- 
land. There  is  nothing  about  you  to  lead  one  to  that 
conclusion." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied,  gravely.  "  My  clawham- 
mer coat  was  made  in  Piccadilly,  so  I  suppose  it  is  all 
right." 

He  looked  down  at  the  garment  in  question,  and  dusted 
the  sleeve  lightly  with  a  perfectly  gloved  hand. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?"  he  inquired,  simply. 

Miss  Winter  was  becoming  interested.  She  therefore 
quelled  a  sudden  desire  to  laugh,  and  answered — 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  a  very  nice  coat." 

"  I  am  not,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  new  to  England, 
but  I  have  not  moved — 1  think  you  call  it — much  in  Lon- 
don society.  I  suppose  the  men  do  all  the  moving  in  your 


Carte  and  Tierce.  129 

society  ? — they  seem  to.     The  women  sit  mostly  still  and 
wait  till  the  men  come  to  them.     With  us  it  is  different." 

"The  women,"  replied  this  womanly  lady,  "are  be- 
ginning to  move  with  us,  and  from  what  I  have  seen  of 
the  result,  I  rather  incline  towards  the  old  policy  of  sit- 
ting still." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  a  little  nod.  There 
was  in  his  queer  restless  eyes  a  distinct  glance  of  ap- 
proval. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  yes.  So  I  should  surmise.  Our 
ladies  are  very  fascinating,  and  very  clever,  and  all  that, 
but — but  the  young  men  do  not  seem  to  make  such  a 
pretty  show  of  loving  them  as  we  read  of  in  olden  times. 
At  all  events  they  do  not  continue  to  show  them  that  re- 
gard which,  I  remember,  my  father  showed  towards  my 
mother." 

"  I  myself  am  a  humble  admirer  of  the  womanly 
school." 

"  And  I,"  added  Easton.  "  Now,"  he  continued,  after 
a  pause,  "do  tell  me.  What  do  all  these  good  people 
think  they  are  doing  here  to-night  ?  " 

"  They  think  firstly,"  replied  Miss  Winter,  "  that  they 
are  getting  their  names  into  the  fashionable  society  pa- 
pers. Secondly,  that  their  natural  or  artificial  adornment 
is  creating  a  distinct  impression.  Thirdly,  and  lastly, 
that  they  are  assisting  in  some  indefinite  way  towards  the 
solution  of  a  problem  of  which  the  rudiments  are  entirely 
unknown." 

"Then  in  England,  as  well  as  in  my  own  country, 
charity  is  a  recognized  plaything  of  society,"  suggested 
Easton. 

"Yes.     We  take   it  up   in   late  autumn  and   winter, 
when  there  are  no  races,  nor   regattas,  nor   lawn-tennis 
parties." 
9 


130  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  Ah,  then,"  said  the  American,  "  society  is  very  much 
the  same  here  as  elsewhere." 

At  this  moment  Oswin  Grace  passed  within  earshot  of 
them.  He  heard  the  remark,  and  recognized  the  voice. 
When  he  turned,  his  surprise  at  seeing  Miss  Winter  and 
Easton  together  was  so  marked  as  to  cause  a  little  frown 
to  pass  across  the  queer,  wistful  face  of  the  American. 
He  returned  the  young  Englishman's  comprehensive  bow, 
however,  with  perfect  equanimity. 

"  You  know  Oswin  Grace  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Winter. 

"  Oh  yes,"  was  the  cool  reply,  "  Tyars  brought  him 
to  my  rooms  one  evening." 

Miss  Winter  skilfully  concealed  her  eagerness. 

"  They  are  great  friends,"  she  said,  lightly. 

"  Ye — es.     Yes.     Tyars  constantly  talks  of  him." 

"I  suppose,"  continued  Miss  Winter,  in  the  same  in- 
differently conversational  way,  "  that  they  have  many 
interests  in  common ;  both  being  sailors.  At  least,  I 
believe  Claud  Tyars  considers  himself  a  sailor  now." 

This  was  clever,  and  the  wary  little  man  paused.  He 
felt  convinced  that  Miss  Winter  knew  less  of  the  past  life 
of  Tyars  than  she  would  have  him  believe.  Moreover,  he 
suspected  that  she  had  never  hitherto  called  him  Claud 
Tyars.  The  implied  familiarity  was  a  trap,  womanly, 
clever,  and  subtle  ;  but  Easton  avoided  it  with  equal  skill. 
He  maintained  an  easy  silence.  Immediately  afterwards, 
however,  he  made  a  blunder. 

"  Oswin,"  said  Miss  Winter,  "  is  a  great  friend  of 
mine,  and  I  think  Helen  is  my  greatest  friend." 

"  A  sister  ?  "  inquired  Easton,  rashly. 

"  Yes.     Mr.  Tyars  has  not  spoken  of  her  then  ?  " 

"  No.     Tyars  did  not  tell  me  that  Grace  had  a  sister." 

There  was  a  short  pause.  Perhaps  the  American 
heard  the  little  sigh  of  relief  given  by  his  companion, 


Carte  and  Tierce.  131 

marking,  as  it  were,  the  relaxation  of  an  effort.  Such  a 
sigh  as  an  athlete  gives  when  he  has  scored  a  success  and 
his  weary  muscles  fall  into  repose.  He  became  instantly 
conscious  of  his  blunder.  He  had  been  outwitted  by  this 
pleasant  woman.  He — Matthew  Mark  Easton — a  born 
intriguer,  a  man  with  real  genius  for  conspiracy. 

"  Ah  !  "  reflected  Miss  Winter,  "  why  has  Mr.  Tyars 
omitted  to  make  mention  of  Helen's  existence  ?  "  And 
with  feminine  intuition  she  made  a  hasty  mental  note  .of 
this  important  item/ 

"  So/'  mused  Easton,  during  the  same  pause,  "  there  is 
a  Miss  Grace,  and  Tyars  never  mentioned  her.  I  must  be 
very  careful.  Seems  to  me  that  there  are  two  men  at 
stake  here,  not  one ;  and  I  cannot  afford  to  lose  two 
sailors  such  as  these." 

Miss  Winter  was  now  drawn  into  a  vortex  of  light- 
hearted  idlers,  bent  upon  a  systematic  inspection  of  the 
pictures  ;  and  from  their  ranks  Easton  took  the  first  op- 
portunity of  dropping  away  unobserved.  They  did  not 
speak  again  during  the  evening ;  but  the  little  seed  was 
sown — the  little  seed  of  mutual  esteem  or  mutual  dislike, 
as  the  case  may  be,  which  under  either  circumstance  seems 
to  draw  some  people  together  here  in  life  ;  to  spread  its 
subtle  tendrils,  intertwined  and  knit  together,  until  their 
united  strength  is  a  thing  undreamt  of. 

"  I  seem,"  reflected  Easton,  subsequently,  over  a  very 
good  cigar,  "to  have  met  that  little  English  lady  some- 
where before.  Her  way  of  speaking,  and  her  method  of 
expressing  herself  in  a  cheery  way,  as  if  nothing  mattered 
very  much,  are  familiar  to  me.  I  certainly  have  not  seen 
her  before  in  this  vale  of  sorrow,  as  the  lady  writers  call 
it.  I  wonder  where  I  have  met  her." 

It  happened  to  fall  to  the  lot  of  Claud  Tyars  to  shut  the 
door  of  Miss  Winter's  comfortable  brougham ;  while 


132  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

Grace,  who  had  helped  her  in,  stood  back  and  nodded  a 
good  night. 

The  lady  leant  back  against  the  soft  cushions,  and  drew 
her  cloak  more  snugly  round  her.  The  flashing  light  of 
street-lamp  or  carriage  showed  her  face  to  be  grave  and 
thoughtful.  She  was  realizing  that  Claud  Tyars  was 
something  more  than  a  mere  lover  of  intrigue,  making  a 
mystery  out  of  a  very  ordinary  love  affair.  She  was  rec- 
ognizing now  that  matters  were  more  serious  than  she 
had  at  first  considered  them. 


A  Meeting.  133 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  MEETING. 

SOCIAL  questions  are  of  very  slow  growth.  We  fondly 
imagine  that,  in  our  days,  that  vague  movement  which 
we  call  Progress  (with  a  capital  letter  if  you  please)  is 
making  greater  strides  than  hitherto.  But  if  we  judge 
from  results  it  would  seem  evident  that  the  world  moves 
on  at  the  same  steady  pace  which  marked  its  progress  in 
olden  times. 

The  greatest  movement  of  the  generation,  at  least  the 
movement  which  has  attracted  the  greatest  amount  of 
attention,  has  undoubtedly  been  the  education  of  women. 
They  demanded  the  same  privileges  as  possessed  by  their 
sterner  competitors.  These  have  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses been  granted  them,  and  what  is  the  result  ?  George 
Eliots  are  no  more  numerous.  The  old  Masters  in  Art 
and  Music  sleep  on  securely,  for  their  fame  is  not  yet 
dimmed  by  the  productions  of  women  who  have  had  the 
incentive  of  their  example  to  assist  them. 

Woman's  voice  is  heard  more  frequently  to-day,  but 
her  work  is  less  perceptible.  It  is  easy  to  say  that  this  is 
the  beginning — the  first  step  towards  emancipation.  If  it 
is  so,  it  is  a  very  bad  beginning.  The  unsexing  of  woman 
cannot  well  lead  to  her  glorification,  for  her  womanliness 
will  always  secure  a  higher  esteem  than  her  shrewdness. 
Although  women  talk  more  now  it  is  a  question  whether 
they  are  really  progressing  so  rapidly  as  the  enthusiasts 


134  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

imagine.  It  is  a  very  doubtful  question  whether  they  are 
urged  by  any  higher  or  superior  aspirations  than  those 
that  prompted  a  woman  to  deceive  an  old  man  with  such 
clumsy  devices  as  a  covering  of  goatskin  and  a  savory 
dish.  It  is  likely  that  men  and  women  were  very  much 
the  same  before  the  Flood  as  they  are  now.  When  Noah 
was  busy  building  the  Ark,  one  cannot  but  believe  that 
social  problems  were  being  discussed  by  his  neighbors. 
It  is  probable  that  women  were  seeking  to  emancipate 
themselves  then ;  that  is  to  say,  a  certain  number  of 
them,  and  in  very  much  the  same  proportion  as  to-day. 

It  has  always  been  a  feminine  characteristic  to  betray 
a  certain  estimable  thirst  for  knowledge  ;  to  know  some- 
thing of  which  she  is  better  left  in  ignorance.  It  began 
with  a  desire  to  taste  a  forbidden  fruit,  and  after  a  con- 
siderable lapse  of  time  it  has  come  to  matters  of  medicine 
and  law. 

Of  course  there  is  the  other  side  of  the  question.  The 
lamentable  fact  that  there  are  a  certain  number  of  women 
(and  this  number  has  existed  in  other  generations  as  well 
as  in  our  own)  who  are  endowed  with  intellect  and  deprived 
of  charm — women  who  will  never  marry,  or  at  all  events 
will  never  marry  happily.  It  would  never  do  to  put  for- 
ward here  the  Oriental  creed,  that  woman's  first  duty  is 
to  be  lovely,  her  second  to  be  charming.  It  is  not  our 
creed,  of  course ;  but  we  cannot  blind  ourselves  to  the 
fact  that  the  charming  women  and  the  lovely  women  have 
the  best  time  of  it  here  below.  And  I  would  beg  to  point 
out  to  the  plain  unwed  who  have  fallen  back  upon  intellect 
or  good  works,  that  they  have  not  a  monopoly  of  these. 
Goodness  is  often  linked  with  beauty,  a  little  intelligence 
is  needed  to  complete  loveliness,  and  without  intellect 
there  is  no  charm.  These  intellectual  women  clamor  for 
work.  Let  them  make  work,  let  them  make  their  posi- 


A  Meeting.  135 

tion !  If  they  cannot  make  it  they  can  never  occupy  it 
to  the  exclusion  of  men.  Let  them  learn  to  be  nonentities 
as  we  men  have  to  do.  A  high  place  in  the  world  is  not 
gained  by  talking  of  it,  but  by  working  first  and  talking 
after.  The  plain  and  intellectual  are,  after  all  is  said  (a 
good  deal)  and  done  (a  very  little),  but  a  minority,  and  a 
small  one.  By  the  bye,  all  this  has  very  little  to  do 
with  us. 

Miss  Winter  sometimes  fell  a  victim  to  these  longings 
for  labor ;  that  is  the  meaning  of  the  foregoing  prelude. 
She  sometimes  felt  useless,  and  looked  beyond  the  work 
that  lay  at  hand  for  heavier  labor.  When  she  heard  of 
good  works  done  by  women,  she  longed  to  do  something 
also.  And  one  hears  a  great  deal  of  such  good  works. 
The  bushel  is  not  a  feminine  vessel,  except,  indeed,  to 
place  inversely  and  stand  the  light  upon  the  top  for  greater 
elevation.  Your  Grace  Darlings,  and  your  Florence 
Nightingales,  and  your  Sister  Doras  are  at  times  a  trifle 
wearying.  They  are  examples  which  should  be  carefully 
suppressed.  They  did  a  little  passing  good,  and  any  amount 
of  permanent  evil,  because  every  girl  who  has  no  lover 
thinks  she  can  emulate  them. 

But  it  was  only  at  times  that  Miss  Winter  gave  way  to 
this  weakness,  and  she  was  very  quiet  about  it.  When 
the  paroxysm  was  upon  her  she  put  on  a  thick  veil,  her 
quietest  dress,  and  took  the  omnibus  to  Tower  Hill. 

She  was  too  well  acquainted  with  the  world  to  go 
empty-handed  and  to  make  those  trivial  mistakes  by 
which  many  well-meaning  women  reduce  charity  to  the 
ludicrous.  She  had  an  old  bag  specially  devoted  to  this 
secret  vice,  for  one  cannot  carry  half-pounds  of  butter, 
packets  of  tea,  and  pounds  of  raw  sausages  in  one's  best 
hand-bag. 

The  recipients  of  her  charity  were  a  race  of  men  over- 


136  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

looked  by  Charity  Organizations,  ignored  by  those  bland 
distributors  of  leaflet  literature  who  call  themselves  the 
Sailor's  Friend.  Very  few  people  find  themselves  by  ac- 
cident in  the  London  Dock  or  the  St.  ^Catherine's  Dock  ; 
in  fact  -both  these  basins  are  rather  difficult  to  find.  Very 
few,  therefore,  know  that  there  is  such  a  being  as  the 
ship-keeper.  There  are  many  idlers  by  the  river-side, 
on  London  Bridge,  or  the  Custom  House  Quay,  but  in 
the  docks  there  are  none.  These  are  places  where  only 
such  as  have  business  to  transact  are  in  the  habit  of  re- 
sorting. This  is  easily  explained  by  a  note  of  the  fact 
that  all  the  docks  are  private  property,  and  therefore 
closed  to  the  general  public. 

The  ship-keeper  is  a  strange,  amphibious  creature. 
His  calling  is  afloat,  his  business  on  the  waters,  and  yet 
he  is  no  sailor.  In  busier  times  he  rarely  spent  more 
than  two  months  on  board  of  one  ship ;  now  there  are 
men  living  week  after  week,  month  after  month,  year 
after  year  on  the  same  vessel.  Many  of  them  never  set 
foot  outside  the  dock-gates  ;  some  there  are  who  remain 
afloat  always.  There  are  vessels  lying  out  in  the  middle 
of  the  basins  of  which  the  decks  have  known  no  other 
tread  for  years  than  that  of  the  aged  hermit  living  in  their 
forecastles.  Most  of  these  ships  have  a  history,  but 
others  are  merely  waiting — waiting,  if  you  please,  for 
better  times.  As  if  they  could  afford  it ;  as  if  they  could 
afford  to  wait  for  better  times  any  more  than  you  or  I. 
For  ships  have  but  one  life  even  as  men,  and  if  they  are 
too  slow,  too  clumsy,  too  heavy — well,  they  are  failures, 
just  as  many  of  us  are  from  the  same  cause.  And  a 
failure  is  a  failure  despite  sophistry  and  in  face  of  smooth 
phrases.  We  talk  gravely  or  gaily  of  waiting  for  better 
times,  but  most  of  us  are  only  waiting  for  an  end  of  some 
sort. 


A  Meeting.  137 

Miss  Winter  had  heard  of  these  ships,  and  from  dif- 
ferent sources  she  gradually  learnt  that  there  were  men 
living  on  board  of  them ;  men  whose  lives  were  almost 
as  solitary  as  that  of  a  sailor  cast  upon  some  desert  island. 
It  seems  strange  that  within  the  roar  of  London  life,  al- 
most within  stone's  throw  of  the  crowded  East  End  streets, 
there  should  be  men  living  day  after  day  without  speak- 
ing a  word  to  their  fellow-creatures.  For  if  they  do  not 
choose  to  come  ashore,  certainly  no  one  will  trouble  to  go 
on  board  and  see  them.  The  butcher  makes  his  daily 
round  of  the  dock  with  barrow  and  knife  like  a  cat's-meat 
man,  but  on  twelve  shillings  a  week  one  does  not  expect 
meat  every  day. 

In  course  of  time  she  evolved  the  idea  of  going  to  the 
docks  to  see  if  it  was  difficult  to  get  on  board  these  ships, 
and  there  she  discovered  that  there  was  nothing  easier. 
It  was  merely  a  matter  of  paying,  as  it  is  in  every  other 
part  of  the  world. 

At  first  her  advances  caused  consternation,  but  woman- 
like she  gradually  made  her  way,  never  being  guilty  of 
one  retrograde  step.  A  few  distrusted  her  motives,  some 
thought  she  was  merely  a  fool,  others  concluded  she  had 
"got  religion."  These  latter  were  the  first  to  welcome 
her.  The  explanation  was  so  simple,  and  it  had  served 
to  account  for  stranger  conduct  than  this.  They  had,  in 
their  time,  come  across  the  malady  in  a  more  virulent 
form. 

One  and  all  appreciated  the  butter  and  the  sausages. 
Some  made  use  of  the  soap,  and  a  few  read  the  news- 
papers she  brought  them. 

Soon  Miss  Winter  found  that  her  advent  was  looked 
for.  The  responsibilities  of  beneficence  began  to  make 
themselves  felt.  She  commenced  to  know  personally 
these  quaint  old  hermits,  and  found  that  there  were  sin- 


138  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

cere  and  insincere  ship-keepers — ship-keepers  who  were 
interesting  and  others  who  were  mere  nonentities.  On 
the  whole  she  gave  preference  to  those  who  took  the 
butter  and  the  sausages  and  left  the  soap.  These  latter 
were  old  fellows  who  had  never  washed,  and  did  not  see 
the  good  of  changing  their  habits  in  old  age.  This  con- 
servatism indicated  a  character  worthy  of  admiration, 
and  superior  to  that  of  such  as  asked  for  more  soap  and 
hinted  at  tracts. 

She  became  more  and  more  interested  in  this  work, 
and  lapsed  into  the  habit  of  going  to  the  docks  once  a 
week  at  least.  As  Claud  Tyars  frequented  the  same 
spot  with  an  equal  regularity,  their  meeting  was  only  a 
question  of  time. 

They  had  missed  each  other  several  times  by  the 
merest  chance,  but  at  last  they  came  face  to  face  in  a 
most  undeniable  manner.  The  morning  was  rather  foggy, 
and  in  consequence  the  dock  was  more  silent  and  sleepier 
than  usual.  Miss  Winter  having  just  left  a  boat,  was 
mounting  the  steep  wet  steps  from  the  edge  of  the  slimy 
water  when  a  tall  man,  emerging  from  the  fog,  came  to 
the  top  of  the  stairs  and  hailed  the  boat. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  said  ;  "  I  want  you." 

He  came  down  a  step  or  two  and  stood  to  one 
side  to  let  Miss  Winter  pass.  In  doing  so  he  looked  at 
her,  and  she,  glancing  up  to  thank  him,  gave  a  little 
start. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed.     "  You— here — Mr.  Tyars  ? '" 

He  raised  his  hat  without  betraying  any  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  of  course.  The  docks  have  a 
natural  attraction  for  me — a  sailor." 

"  I  forgot,"  she  said,  looking  calmly  at  him,  "that  you 
were  a  sailor." 

She  had  been  betrayed  into  surprise,  but  in  a  moment 


A  Meeting.  139 

her  usual  alertness  returned  to  her.  She  passed  on,  and 
he  followed  her. 

"  Are  you  alone  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  replied,  lightly.  "  I  am  quite  at  home 
here.  I  come  nearly  every  week  and  interrupt  the  medi- 
tations of  the  ship-keepers.  I  look  after  their  temporal 
welfare.  It  is  quite  my  own  idea,  and  I  assure  you  that 
I  have  no  connection  with  any  philanthropic  society." 

"  Tracts  ?  "  he  inquired,  shortly. 

"No;  no  tracts,"  she  replied.  "Sausages,  butter, 
and  soap — essentially  of  this  world." 

He  was  walking  beside  her,  suiting  his  step  to  hers  with 
an  implied  sense  of  protection,  almost  of  approbation  which 
annoyed  her. 

"  There  may  be,"  he  suggested,  half-ironically,  "  a  hid- 
den motive  in  the  soap." 

"  But  there  is  not,"  she  replied,  sharply.  "  I  advo- 
cate cleanliness  only.  Personally  I  prefer  the  dirty 
ones." 

"  Probably,"  he  said,  "  you  do  a  great  deal  of  good. 
These  poor  fellows  lead  a  very  lonely  life.  You  must 
seem  to  them  like  a  being  from  another  world." 

"So  I  am,  Mr.  Tyars,"  she  said,  still  upholding  her 
work.  "  Quite  another  world." 

Then  she  suddenly  laid  aside  her  gravity  with  that 
strange  inconsequence  which  is  one  of  the  many  impor- 
tant differences  between  the  male  and  female  mind. 

"You  speak  feelingly,"  she  continued,  in  thinly-veiled 
mockery.  "  Perhaps  you  have  been  a  ship-keeper  your- 
self !  You  seem  to  have  been  a  good  many  things." 

"  Yes,"  was  his  calm  reply,  "  I  have.  I  was  once  a 
ship-keeper  in  the  Southern  Atlantic." 

She  was  silenced.  The  details  of  his  terrible  experience 
on  board  the  fever-stricken  merchantman  had  never  been 


140  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

vouchsafed,  but  it  was  not  difficult  to  imagine  them  from 
the  official  account  he  had  been  forced  to  publish. 

Suddenly  this  cheerful  little  lady  had  realized  the  pet- 
tiness of  her  own  existence,  the  futility  of  her  own  small 
caprice.  She  glanced  up  at  him  almost  meditating  an 
apology.  Observant  and  analytical  as  she  was,  she  had 
not  yet  noticed  a  fact  of  which  Tyars  was  fully  aware ; 
she  had  not  noticed  that  in  her  intercourse  with  Claud 
Tyars  she  invariably  began  in  an  antagonistic  vein,  and 
that  with  equal  monotony  this  antagonism  melted  after  a 
few  moments. 

In  one  respect  Tyars  was  a  commonplace  "man.  He 
possessed  the  genius  of  command,  which  is  the  genius 
most  often  encountered  in  the  world.  It  is  merely  a  genius 
of  adaptation,  not  of  creation.  Its  chief  characteristic  is 
a  close  but  unconscious  observation  of  human  nature.  He 
understood  all  who  came  in  contact  with  him  much  better 
than  any  one  of  them  understood  him.  Miss  Winter  was 
conscious  of  a  reserve  in  this  man's  mind  which  was  ir- 
revocably closed  to  her.  He  casually  glanced  into  her 
character  in  passing  ;  if  there  were  an  inner  motive  be- 
yond his  fathom,  he-  remained  indifferent  to  its  presence. 
When  their  paths  crossed  he  was  pleased  to  meet  her, 
but  she  never  flattered  herself  that  he  would  go  far  out  of 
his  way  to  hear  her  opinion  upon  any  subject.  Had  she 
been  a  young  girl,  this  knowledge  would  have  shown  itself 
in  a  thousand  little  coquetries,  or  a  petulant  curiosity  ;  but 
she  had  arrived  at  an  age  when  it  is  frequently  realized, 
even  by  the  most  beautiful,  that  Man  has  other  interests  in 
the  world  than  Woman. 

"If,"  she  said,  "  I  cared  for  horrors,  I  should  ask  you 
some  day  to  tell  me  about  .  .  .  about  those  days — your 
ship-keeping  days  ;  but  I  hate  horrors." 

He  laughed. 


A  Meeting.  141 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  said,  with  evident  relief.  "  I  hate 
horrors,  too,  and  should  not  make  a  picturesque  story 
of  it." 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  feeling  rather  more  friendly 
towards  each  other  every  moment.  It  was  necessary  to 
pass  beneath  a  crane  of  which  the  greasy  chain  hung 
loosely  right  across  their  path.  Tyars  stepped  forward, 
and  with  a  quick  turn  of  the  winch-handle  drew  the  chaio 
taut,  and  consequently  out  of  her  way.  It  was  a  mere 
incident,  trivial  in  its  way  ;  but  women  note  these  triviali- 
ties, and  piece  them  together  with  a  skill  and  sequence 
which  men  cannot  rival  or  even  imitate.  Tyars'  action 
showed  an  intimate  knowledge  with  the  smallest  details  of 
the  calling  he  had  chosen  to  follow.  A  landsman  would 
have  attempted  to  hold  the  chain  back  with  hand  or  stick, 
running  the  risk  of  failing  to  do  so,  and  incurring  the 
certainty  of  covering  himself  with  black  oil.  Tyars 
overcame  the  difficulty  with  seamanlike  promptness,  and 
although  Miss  Winter  accorded  to  the  action  its  full  signifi- 
cance, she  merely  acknowledged  the  politeness  that 
prompted  it  by  a  gracious  little  nod. 

"  If,"  said  Tyars,  presently,  "  you  were  my  sister,  or 
if  I  were  fortunate  enough  to  possess  a  right  to  comment 
upon  your  actions,  I  should  be  strongly  tempted  to  throw 
cold  water  upon  your  charity." 

"  Of  course  you  would,"  she  replied.  "  Nine  men  out 
of  ten  would  do  the  same." 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  Mr.  Tyars ;  and,  moreover,  I  do  not 
defend  myself.  It  is  very  difficult  to  find  a  channel  for 
charitable  motives  to  run  in.  At  any  rate,  I  do  no  harm 
to  these  old  men." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  do  them  a  great  deal  of  good," 
he  said,  rather  bluntly  ;  "  but  you  are  hardly  the  person 


142  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

to  do  it.  This  is  not  the  place  for  a  lady  to  wander  about 
in  alone.  Wait  twenty  years." 

She  laughed,  and  stepped  aside  to  hold  out  her  arms  in 
expostulation. 

"  I'm  not  a  girl,"  she  said  ;  "  and  look  at  me.  A  thick 
veil  and  a  clumsy  old  ulster  without  a  waist  to  it.  I  think, 
indeed,  it  is  foolish  of  me  to  ask  you  to  look." 

He  did  look,  gravely,  from  the  top  of  her  simple  hat  to 
the  toes  of  her  small  boots  peeping  out  beneath  the  ulster. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  he  said  ;  "  you  cannot  disguise  yourself. 
No  woman,"  he  added,  "with  your  .  .  .  ad  vantages  can." 

He  was  quite  right.  Plainness  is  easier  to  conceal  than 
beauty.  There  is  nothing  more  difficult  to  hide  than  a 
pretty  face  and  a  graceful  figure.  They  walked  on  again. 

"If,"  she  said,  "  we  waited  for  men  to  tell  us  what  we 
can  do  and  what  we  cannot,  a  great  deal  of  good  would 
remain  undone." 

He  would  not  argue  ;  and  his  silence  softened  her  humor, 
for  it  betrayed  a  determination  to  interfere  no  farther. 

"It  is  not,"  she  said,  continuing  her  defense  with 
womanlike  persistence,  "  as  if  I  dragged  other  people 
into  it.  I  do  not,  for  instance,  bring  Helen  here." 

As  she  said  this  she  glanced  up  at  him. 

"  No,"  he  answered  calmly,  returning  her  gaze. 

They  were  now  at  the  dock-gates,  and  the  constable  on 
duty  touched  the  brim  of  his  helmet  in  double  recognition. 

"  May  I  call  a  hansom  ?  "  inquired  Tyars. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  replied.    "  There  is  one  coming." 

While  waiting  for  the  cab  she  spoke  again. 

"Ifeel,"  she  said,  lightly,  "like  a  runaway  school- 
girl. Will  you  please  tell  no  tales  out  of  school  ?  " 

"  You  can  trust  me,  Miss  Winter,"  he  said,  as  he  helped 
her  into  the  cab,  "to  hold  my  tongue.  It  is  one  of  the 
few  accomplishments  I  possess." 


Brother  and  Sister.  143 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 

ADMIRAL  GRACE  rather  prided  himself  on  his  dinner- 
parties. Like  most  elderly  men  he  gave  place  to  no  one 
in  the  matter  of  port  wine.  The  rest  he  left  to  Helen,  in 
which  he  showed  great  wisdom,  for  she  had  inherited  the 
power  of  making  things  run  smoothly  which  had  been 
transmitted  also  by  a  clever  mother  to  Oswin. 

There  was  question  of  a  big  dinner-party  in  the  early 
weeks  of  December,  and  the  admiral  took  a  lively  interest 
in  the  proceedings.  As  Oswin  was  at  home  it  had  been 
decided  that  a  younger  element  should  be  introduced. 
Helen  had  never  thought  of  complaining  on  her  own  ac- 
count, but  when  it  was  a  question  of  a  naval  lieutenant 
at  table  with  old  salts  she  spoke  up.  Miss  Winter  was 
invited,  of  course.  Helen  would  face  nothing  without  her. 
The  old  sailors  had  wives,  one  of  them  possessed  a 
daughter.  These  living  arguments  led  to  the  thoughts  of 
suitable  men  to  meet  them.  The  question  was  opened  at 
the  breakfast-table  one  morning,  and  it  struck  Oswin  that 
his  sister  was  singularly  devoid  of  ideas.  She  could  not 
think  of  one  man  suitable  for  the  occasion.  The  sug- 
gestion lay  with  Oswin.  He  said  at  once  that  he  had 
two  men — both  friends  of  Miss  Winter's — both  friends 
of  his  own. 

Helen  busied  herself  with  the  under-structure  of  a 
small  kettle  simmering  over  a  spirit-lamp. 


144  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  Claud  Tyars,"  said  Oswin,  calmly,  "  and  a  man 
called  Easton — an  American." 

"  An  American,"  echoed  the  admiral,  looking  as  it  were 
into  the  recesses  of  his  memory.  "  If  he  is  a  gentleman 
let  us  have  him.  I  like  Americans.  I  was  once  at  Wash- 
ington in  an  official  capacity,  and  I  may  say  that  I  never 
encountered  a  rude  word  or  an  evil  glance,  although  the 
old  country  was  not  very  popular  then.  What  is  this 
man  ?  " 

Oswin  hesitated. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  cannot  exactly  tell  you.  He  is 
like  many  Americans,  having  many  tastes,  and  following 
them  all — possessing  many  talents,  and  making  good  use 
of  none — expert  in  many  callings,  and  following  each  in 
turn.  He  is  what  is  called  a  litterateur.  He  writes — 
when  the  spirit  moves  him.  He  has  some  sort  of  an  ap- 
pointment in  London.  He  has  a  great  many  irons  in  the 
fire,  but  no  one  iron  is  pushed  home." 

"  Is  he  educated  ?  "  inquired  Helen.  "  So  few  Amer- 
icans are." 

"  Harvard,"  replied  Oswin,  tersely,  "and  languages, 

French,  German,  and  Ru "  He  stopped  himself  just 

in  time,  and  went  on  quickly  with  some  presence  of  mind. 
"  He  is  a  bit  of  an  athlete  too — a  sailing-canoe  champion, 
and  a  proverbial  cox.  Little  man." 

Helen  thought  of  the  small  man  she  and  Miss  Winter 
had  watched  from  that  lady's  drawing-room  window. 

"  Let  us  have  him  by  all  means,"  she  said.  "  And 
what  about  another  man  ?  " 

Again  the  spirit-lamp  beneath  the  silver  kettle  was  out 
of  order. 

"Claud  Tyars,"  said  Oswin,  decisively,  reaching  the 
butter. 

"  I  rather  like  that  young  fellow,"  said  the  admiral, 


Brother  and  Sister.  145 

after  a  pause  of  some  length,  during  which  Oswin  had 
munched  toast  in  a  dogged  way.  "  He  and  Agnes  Win- 
ter seemed  to  get  on  very  well  together.  Let  us  have 
him  too." 

"  I  will  write  to  them,"  said  Oswin,  and  the  matter 
was  settled. 

When  the  admiral  grumbled  off  with  his  newspaper  to 
the  den  he  called  his  study,  the  brother  and  sister  remained 
at  the  table  without  reason.  Neither  was  eating,  and 
neither  spoke  for  some  time.  At  length  Oswin  rose  and 
took  up  his  station  upon  the  hearthrug,  where  instead  of 
standing,  he  walked  backwards  and  forwards  with  a  pecu- 
liar action  which  might  have  suggested  a  caged  animal  to 
such  persons  as  were  unacquainted  with  the  narrow  deck 
of  a  slave-catcher. 

"  It  must  have  been,"  he  said,  oracularly,  "  frightfully 
slow  for  you  during  the  last  two  years.  I  suppose  you 
had  no  one  under  sixty  years  of  age  in  the  house  .  .  . 
except — of  course — Agnes  Winter  ?" 

Helen  laughed  with  that  tolerance  which  seems 
to  forsake  women  as  they  grow  older — as  they  begin 
to  recognize  that  life,  as  lived  day  by  day,  is  really  a 
mortal  permanency,  and  not  a  period  leading  to  better 
things. 

"Well,"  she  answered,  "we  have  scarcely  been  gay 
at  home ;  but  then  I  have  been  out  a  great  deal,  and 
Agnes  has  always  plenty  of  people  about  her." 

Oswin  was  trying  experiments  on  the  burning  coals 
with  the  toe  of  his  boot. 

"  Ah  !  What  sort  of  people  ?  "  he  inquired,  in  a  dull 
voice. 

Helen  raised  her  head  and  directed  a  quick  glance  to- 
wards the  broad  back  of  her  brother. 

"  Oh,"  she  answered,  indifferently,  "  her  old  school- 
10 


146  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

friends,  who  are  mostly  married,  and  some  of  their  hus- 
bands— not  all." 

"Is  she,"  inquired  the  sailor,  abruptly,  "going  to  live 
on  in  that  house  alone  ?  " 

"  In  the  meantime.  She  is  unsettled  still.  It  is  not  so 
very  long  since  her  father  died." 

"  Has  she  no  relations,"  pursued  Oswin,  "  except 
those  west-country  people  who  are  half  Quakers  ?  " 

"  No  near  relations,"  answered  Helen  ;  "  no  one  with 
any  right  to  advise  or  interfere." 

There  was  a  short  silence  during  which  Helen  continued 
to  sit  sideways  on  her  chair  near  the  table,  gazing  ab- 
stractedly at  her  brother's  sturdy  form.  Suddenly  he 
wheeled  round  and  encountered  her  glance. 

"  Why  does  she  not  marry  ?  "  he  asked,  slowly. 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  with  that  reply 
he  was  forced  to  content  himself. 

"  She  is,"  he  continued,  "just  the  person  for  matri- 
mony. She  has  money  and  a  very  nice  house.  It  would 
be  so  convenient." 

"  I  do  not  suppose  that  Agnes  would  relinquish  her  lib- 
erty for  the  sake  of  convenience,"  said  Helen,  rising  and 
taking  up  a  newspaper  which  had  just  come  in.  Her 
brother  watched  her  attentively. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  he  said  at  length,  quietly,  "that  she 
does  not  marry." 

The  paper  crackled  as  if  held  in  unsteady  hands.  Helen 
turned  a  page,  murmuring  vaguely,  "  Yes." 

When  she  had  looked  all  through  the  journal  she 
glanced  up  and  said — 

"Who  is  Mr.  Easton  ?" 

It  was  rather  a  singular  coincidence,  this  mention  of 
Easton's  name  immediately  after  a  conversation  respect- 
ing Agnes  Winter.  Helen  remembered  it  a  long  time 


Brother  and  Sister.  147 

afterwards,  when  her  brother  was  not  by  her  side  to  share 
the  recollection. 

He  did  not  answer  the  question  directly. 

"I  want,"  he  said,  "to  make  things  a  little  more 
cheerful  for  you.  Therefore  I  bring  my  friends.  It  is 
not  good  for  you  to  associate  with  none  but  old  fogies — 
especially  old  naval  fogies.  You  will  like  Easton  ;  he  is 
amusing  and  original." 

"  But  is  he  all  right?  You  know  how  particular  papa 
is." 

"Oh,  he  is  all  right;  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  that. 
The  guv'nor  thinks  that  no  man  can  be  a  gentleman  un- 
less he  has  worn  the  Queen's  uniform,  and  is  at  least 
sixty  years  of  age.  Easton  is  a  friend  of  Tyars." 

At  this  point  Helen  changed  the  subject  somewhat 
hastily,  and  other  details  of  the  approaching  festivities 
were  discussed. 

It  is  not  always  easy  to  discover  the  sequence  of  one's 
thoughts.  From  the  first  mention  of  the  name  Helen  had 
no  doubts  of  the  identity  of  Matthew  Mark  Easton.  She 
divined  at  once,  and  by  no  process  of  reasoning,  but  by 
unconscious  intuition,  that  the  American  was  no  other 
than  the  third  person  in  the  short  colloquy  which  she  had 
witnessed  from  her  friend's  window.  Whatever  the  girl's 
thoughts  may  have  been  respecting  the  extension  of  her 
father's  hospitality  to  Claud  Tyars,  whether  these  were 
of  pleasure  or  distrust,  they  were  for  the  time  set  in  the 
background  by  the  reappearance  of  a  man  whom  she  had 
only  seen  once  for  a  few  moments  at  a  considerable  dis- 
tance. 

There  are  sensations  working  in  our  hearts,  flitting 
through  our  brains,  which  we  never  have  time  to  put  into 
definite  shape  in  our  own  thoughts.  .We  are  barely  con- 
scious of  them,  and  although  their  influence  is  sometimes 


148  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

to  be  detected  by  others  in  glance  and  action,  we  frequently 
pass  on  our  way  unaware  of  this  influence — ignorant  of 
its  immediate  consequence,  and  unsuspicious  of  its  possible 
results.  Thus  a  personal  dislike  is  sometimes  known  to 
others,  and  even  suspected  by  its  object,  before  the  feel- 
ing is  fully  developed  in  our  own  thoughts,  before  it  has  a 
definite  place  in  our  brain.  This  does  not  apply  to  a 
feeling  of  sympathy  or  affection,  for  these  are  of  slower 
growth.  Our  likes  develop  slowly,  our  dislikes  spring 
into  life  at  one  bound.  A  wise  man  would  not  care  to  be 
loved  at  first  sight.  Such  a  love  may  be  poetic,  romantic, 
and  interesting,  but  human  life  is  in  reality  none  of  these 
three — its  sorrows  have  no  poetry,  its  joys  no  romance. 
It  is  a  great  mistake  to  attempt  making  human  life  into 
anything  else  than  a  work-a-day,  hard  and  fast  span  of 
years ;  and  to  be  in  keeping  our  joys  must  be  common- 
place— prosaic.  Of  course  there  is  a  beginning  to  sym- 
pathy, though  it  be  less  tangible  than  the  first  sense  of 
antipathy.  We  can  usually  look  back  to  the  commence- 
ment of  a  friendship  and  detect  the  sequence  of  the  links 
ultimately  woven  into  chain. 

When  Helen  had  stood  beside  Miss  Winter,  looking 
down  into  the  street,  her  first  sight  of  Matthew  Mark 
Easton  was  in  some  degree  an  event.  She  felt  indefinitely 
then  that  this  little  man  was  destined  to  enter  into  the 
radius  of  her  existence.  This  feeling  is  difficult  to  define, 
but  most  of  us  have  felt  it  for  ourselves  ;  most  of  us  have 
given  way  to  the  momentary  weakness  of  admitting 
that  there  is  some  influence  at  work  among  us  which  draws 
some  souls  together  and  erects  a  barrier  between  others. 
All  our  neighbors  (using  the  word  in  its  broadest  sense) 
may  be  divided  into  two  classes — those  who  interest  us, 
and  those  to  whom  we  are  indifferent.  These  two  classes 
are  independent  of  personal  affection  or  dislike.  Some 


Brother  and  Sister.  149 

we  love  without  interest  ;  others  whom  we  dislike  interest 
us  despite  ourselves. 

Helen  was  interested  in  Matthew  Mark  Easton  without 
knowing  whether  her  feeling  was  one  of  pure  curiosity 
or  of  sympathy.  Doubtless  she  felt  that  there  were  new 
influences  at  work  upon  her  brother's  life,  and  in  all 
probability  she,  as  well  as  Miss  Winter,  suspected  the 
American  to  be  the  fountain-head  from  whence  these 
influences  flowed.  Very  few  women  are  moral  cowards. 
The  best  of  them — the  typical  English  girl  in  fact — is 
afraid  of  very  few  things  ;  she  has  a  superb  faith  in  her 
own  steadfastness  of  purpose,  and  in  her  own  sense  of 
right  and  wrong.  If  Matthew  Mark  Easton  was  a  common 
adventurer,  Helen  Grace  would  sooner  have  trusted  her- 
self into  his  clutches  than  her  brother.  This  is  a 
mistake  very  often  made  by  young  girls.  It  was  there- 
fore with  a  certain  thrill  of  pleasure  that  she  looked 
forward  to  meeting  a  man  whose  influence  upon  her 
brother  was  not  yet  measurable  or  comprehensible, 
although  she  was  certain  enough  of  its  existence. 

Oswin  aroused  her  from  these  meditations  by  a  ques- 
tion repeated  for  the  third  time. 

"  Helen,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  think  of  Claud 
Tyars  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  frankly  puzzled  smile. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  have  not  got  any- 
where near  him  yet." 

"  Then,"  persisted  her  brother,  "  what  do  you  think  of 
him  from  a  distance  ?  " 

She  nimbly  avoided  the  question. 

"  Is  he,"  she  asked,  "  a  professional  mystery  ?  " 

The  inquiry  was  made  in  good  enough  faith.  In  the 
course  of  her  one  or  two  seasons  in  London  she  had  met 
more  than  one  professional  mystery — men  who  were 


150  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

nothing  else  than  ball-room  hacks,  ready  to  accept  invita- 
tions here,  there,  and  everywhere ;  nineteenth-century 
soldiers  of  fortune,  living  by  their  toes,  the  cheap  perfec- 
tion of  their  dress,  and  the  cheaper  currency  of  a  shallow 
politeness. 

Oswin  knew  what  she  meant,  and  resented  the  insinua- 
tion. He  was  under  the  influence  of  a  true  maritime  con- 
tempt for  all  carpet-knights. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  he  is  certainly  not  that.  The 
log-book  of  the  Martial  could  prove  as  much,  and  besides, 
I  have  another  proof.  Tyars  has  never  called  since  he 
dined  here  two  months  ago." 

"  No,"  murmured  Helen,  "  he  has  not." 

"  A  man  who  envelopes  himself  in  mystery  for  the  pur- 
pose of  exciting  interest  in  the  fair  sex  would  have  called 
before  this,  just  to  keep  up  the  interest." 

"  But  we  have  met  him  at  other  houses — in  theaters, 
and  at  concerts." 

"  None  of  the  meetings,"  argued  Oswin,  "  were  of  his 
own  seeking." 

"Then  you  think,"  said  Helen,  "that the  mystery  is 
merely  indifference  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  exactly  indifference,  but  a  diversity  of 
interest.  Our  friends  do  not  interest  him,  our  world  is 
not  his  world.  He  is  not  a  ladies'  man  ;  but  I  see  nothing 
mysterious  about  him.  Where  does  the  mystery  come 
in  ?  " 

Helen  laughed,  and  when  she  spoke  her  tone  was 
lighter.  This  matter  was  evidently  not  worthy  of  serious 
discussion. 

'.'Only  in  his  reserve,"  she  answered.  "  He  is  one 
of  the  few  young  men  1  have  met  who  can  talk  of  other 
things  than  their  own  individuality.  I  expect  it  is  the 
rarity  that  strikes  me  as  so  peculiar." 


Brother  and  Sister.  151 

"  He  does  not  volunteer  much  information  about  him- 
self," admitted  Oswin. 

"  My  dear  boy,  he  volunteers  absolutely  nothing." 

Oswin  seemed  to  pull  himself  up. 

"  I  do  not  see,"  he  said,  rather  constrainedly,  "that 
we  need  trouble  about  that.  After  all,  his  own  affairs 
concern  himself  alone.  It  is  not  our  business." 

"  No-o-o,"  said  Helen,  vaguely.  She  was  watching 
her  brother  very  keenly  with  that  unobtrusive  watchful- 
ness of  which  some  of  us  are  conscious  by  our  own  fire- 
sides. These  wives  and  mothers  and  sisters  of  ours — 
bless  them ! — there  is  no  escaping  their  gentle  grasp. 
When  we  are  in  bodily  pain  no  smile  deceives  them,  no 
feeble  joke  turns  aside  their  scrutiny  ;  and  when  we  at- 
tempt to  hold  something  from  them,  they  scent  out  its 
presence.  The  best  of  them  refrain  from  mere  inquisi- 
tion, but  they  all  alike  know  that  there  is  something  which 
we  are  clumsily  attempting  to  screen.  When  a  man  is 
not  absolutely  cleverer  than  a  woman  he  has  no  chance  ; 
with  equal  intellectual  power  the  balance  sways  unerr- 
ingly in  favor  of  the  woman. 

Oswin  Grace  was  a  good  sailor — an  exceptionally  good 
sailor — but  in  intellectual  power,  in  subtlety  of  mind,  he 
was  no  match  for  his  sister.  Helen  knew  well  enough 
that  there  was  some  factor  in  this  friendship  between  her 
brother,  Claud  Tyars,  and  Matthew  Mark  Easton  which 
was  being  carefully  withheld  from  her  by  all  three  men. 
It  was  moreover  only  owing  to  his  sister's  scruples  that 
Oswin  succeeded  in  preserving  so  profound  a  secrecy. 
Helen  thought  it  her  duty  to  refrain  from  meddling  in  any 
way  with  her  brother's  affairs.  Miss  Winter  was  not  so 
scrupulous — few  women  of  her  years  suffer  from  an  over- 
sensitive conscience. 


152  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

TYARS  PAYS  A  CALL. 

CLAUD  TYARS  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  a  residential 
club  in  London.  This  change  had  been  dictated  by  mo- 
tives of  economy.  He  said  that  he  found  chambers  in 
the  Albany  toe  expensive  for  a  man  who  was  seldom  in 
London.  No  one  to  whom  he  made  this  statement  was 
posted  as  to  the  extent  of  his  income,  and  the  excuse 
passed  readily  enough. 

He  was  certainly  freer  in  his  new  quarters — free  to  come 
and  go  when  the  spirit  moved  him,  and  to  some  extent  he 
took  advantage  of  his  newly-established  liberty.  His  ab- 
sences were  frequent,  but  he  was  seldom  away  from  Lon- 
don for  more  than  a  night  or  two.  He  frequently  ran 
down  to  Glasgow,  and  once  to  Peterhead,  where  he  spent 
two  nights. 

One  morning  in  early  December  he  was  partaking  of  a 
very  hearty  breakfast  at  the  wanderers'  club,  where  he 
had  temporarily  taken  rooms,  when  Matthew  Mark  Easton 
was  shown  in.  The  American  was  also  a  member  of  this 
club,  which  was  singularly  enough  composed  of  members 
of  some  University  or  another,  duly  qualified  by  the  power 
and  means  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  a  roaming  spirit. 

There  was  usually  something  original  in  the  manner  of 
Easton's  arrival  or  departure.  In  this  case,  as  in  many 
others,  he  came  straight  to  the  point  without  palaver  or 
explanation.  He  had  a  way  of  letting  one  know  at  once 


Tyars  Pays  a  Call.  153 

in  what  way  one  could  be  useful  to  him,  which  was  at 
times  (if  candid)  almost  startling. 

Without  a  word  he  threw  down  upon  the  breakfast- 
table  a  letter  of  which  the  envelope  had  been  torn.  Tyars 
was  quite  equal  to  the  American  in  quickness  of  thought. 
Preserving  the  same  stoic  silence  he  tossed  across  the  table 
another  envelope  identical  in  every  way,  and  addressed 
by  the  same  hand.  Then  he  continued  his  breakfast. 

Easton  assured  himself  that  his  cigar  was  still  alight,  and 
spoke  the  two  words — 

"  Wednesday  week  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  Wednesday  week." 

"The  night,"  said  Easton,  "that  we  fixed  for  Guy 
Fawkes." 

"  Yes.  We  must  have  the  meeting  on  Tuesday  night. 
We  must  go  to  this." 

Tyars  laid  his  hand  on  the  letter.  The  American's  quick 
little  eyes  were  dancing  over  his  whole  person,  even  to 
the  tips  of  the  quiescent  brown  fingers. 

"  Must  we  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Tyars  looked  up  sharply. 

'I  do  not  believe,"  he  said,  "  that  you  appreciate  the 
importance  of  Oswin  Grace." 

"  Good  sailor  man  !  "  answered  the  American,  "  but 
too  many  women-folk.  They  will  give  us  trouble." 

"  Grace  is  worth  it.  He  is  something  more  than  a  good 
sailor." 

Easton  screwed  up  his  quaint  little  face  into  the  picture 
of  interrogation. 

"What?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Tyars,  in  the  calm  tone  of 
a  man  who  is  not  accustomed  to  hesitation.  "  I  cannot 
define  it,  but  he  has  something  which  makes  him  just  the 
man  I  want." 


154  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

Easton  was  silent.  He  had  a  great  respect  for  this  big 
calm  Englishman  ;  the  sort  of  respect  that  one  has  for  any- 
thing larger  than  oneself  in  the  way  of  an  animal.  Stand- 
ing, for  instance,  beside  an  elephant,  we  cannot  help  feel- 
ing that  within  such  a  vast  cranium  there  must  be  a  brain 
four  or  five  times  the  size  of  our  own — that  brain  must  be 
doing  something.  The  elephant  is  thinking  of  us  while  we 
are  contemplating  him,  and  one  cannot  help  wondering 
what  he  is  thinking  about.  Easton's  feelings  towards  this 
man,  who  supplied  all  that  there  was  of  Force  in  the  hu- 
man combination  of  which  he,  himself,  was  the  founder 
and  chief,  was  one  of  respect  untinged  by  fear,  but  slightly 
flavored  with  wonder.  He  was  by  nature  a  voluble  man, 
although  he  kept  a  certain  hold  upon  himself — a  hold  which 
had  for  result  a  telegraphic  form  of  conversation.  The 
desire  to  talk  was  there,  but  a  check  was  •  put  upon  it  by 
limiting  the  supply  of  pronouns  and  other  conversational 
adjuncts.  Tyars  was,  on  the  contrary,  a  reserved  man 
little  given  to  moments  of  expansion.  This  was  a  neces- 
sary part  of  his  character.  One  never  hears  of  a  voluble 
commander.  It  is  the  silent  men  to  whom  one  renders 
homage. 

Easton  was  ostensibly  the  leader  in  the  undertaking 
which  had  brought  these  two  men  together,  and  as  the 
plot  thickened  he  rose  to  the  occasion  with  characteristic 
elasticity,  but  (as  has  been  mentioned  elsewhere)  he  was 
not  a  born  leader  of  men.  He  occupied  cheerfully  and 
readily  the  position  forced  on  him  by  circumstances,  but 
such  men  as  Claud  Tyars  and  Sergius  Pavloski  are  not  to 
be  led.  Easton  felt  rather  like  one  who  is  driving  a  pair 
of  powerful  horses  down  a  long  hill  without  a  brake  to  his 
vehicle.  He  was  perched  up  on  the  box  and  held  the 
reins,  but  the  limit  of  his  control  was  very  doubtful. 

But  if  he  lacked  the  genius  of  command  he  possessed  a 


Tyars  Pays  a  Call.  155 

very  excellent  substitute  ;  namely,  tact.  By  tact  a  weak 
man  may  sometimes  direct  the  mind  of  a  stronger  than 
himself.  Although  he  was  not  fully  satisfied  that  Oswin 
Grace  was  exactly  the  man  required  for  the  post,  he  re- 
frained from  saying  anything  more,  and  never  subse- 
quently raised  the  question. 

"Well  then,"  he  said,  "we  will  go.  I  shall  call  the 
meeting  on  Tuesday  week  at  my  rooms  as  before.  It  is 
the  last  full  meeting  we  shall  ever  have.  I  think  I  shall 
stand  champagne  and  an  oyster  or  so  ;  they  lighten  the 
heart." 

With  that  he  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

When  he  was  gone  Claud  Tyars  turned  to  his  break- 
fast again.  There  was  a  calm  method  in  his  deportment. 
He  propped  up  his  newspaper  against  the  cruet-stand  and 
read  while  he  finished  a  singularly  hearty  repast.  It  is 
to  be  regretted  that  he  failed  to  soliloquize  aloud,  and 
addressed  no  far-reaching  questions  as  to  the  desirability 
or  otherwise  of  human  life  to  the  toast-rack.  This  is  to 
be  regretted,  because  no  one  is  more  fully  aware  than 
the  novel  writer  that  the  modern  hero  always  soliloquizes 
aloud,  and  that  the  said  soliloquies  should  be  reported 
verbatim.  It  is  such  a  simple  method  of  taking  the  pa- 
tient reader  straightway  inside  the  hero's  mind.  We  all 
must  confess  to  having  accompanied  the  modern  lady- 
novelist  inside  many  an  heroic  mind,  and  when  there 
have  looked  with  due  edification,  of  course.  The  reader 
of  these  lines  will  however  be  compelled  to  find  his  way 
into  Claud  Tyars'  mind  alone,  because  the  recorder  has 
never  been  there  himself,  and  cannot  undertake  to  guide 
others. 

It  is  not  such  an  easy  matter,  you  must  understand,  to 
make  one's  way  into  the  secret  mental  chambers  of  a 
man  like  this.  He  never,  as  Helen  Grace  told  her  brother, 


156  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

volunteered  anything,  and  he  was  a  strongly  character- 
istic specimen  of  the  typical  modern  British  aristocrat. 
That  is  to  say,  a  man  who  cultivates  (ad  nauseam  al- 
most) the  art  of  minding  his  own  business,  and  at  the 
same  time  teaches  other  people  most  plainly  to  mind  theirs. 

His  actions  and  his  words  as  serving  to  indicate  the 
workings  of  his  mind  may  be  studied.  From  the  narra- 
tion of  these  the  intelligent  reader  will  no  doubt  gather  as 
much  edification  as  he  has  humbly  gathered  in  the  foot- 
steps of  the  modern  lady-novelist,  trotting  meekly  after  her 
through  mazes  most  extraordinary,  until  the  fact  that 
this  medley  was  the  mind  of  a  fellow-man  seemed  totally 
incredible.  Such  men  may  exist,  but  it  does  not  fall  to 
the  lot  of  us  poor  males  to  meet  them,  though  indeed 
we  should  scarcely  appreciate  them  if  we  did. 

Nor  would  it  materially  assist  matters  if  the  immediate 
environments  of  Claud  Tyars  were  minutely  described. 
There  was  nothing  singular  about  the  room  he  occupied — 
merely  a  comfortable  club-like  room  with  a  few  papers 
lying  about,  heavily  furnished,  scrupulously  clean.  The 
only  personal  object  to  be  seen  was  a  square  tin-box, 
technically  called  a  deed-box,  and  in  this  were  secured 
sundry  documents  and  letters.  A  man  with  a  memory 
like  a  ledger  requires  neither  pigeon-holes  nor  note-books. 
in  direct  defiance  of  precedent  I  shall  omit  to  record 
whether  Tyars  helped  himself  to  marmalade  with  a  spoon 
or  with  his  buttery  knife  ;  moreover,  posterity  must  eke 
out  its  existence  without  the  knowledge  of  what  he  had 
for  breakfast. 

When  he  rose  from  the  table  and  lighted  a  cigarette, 
his  first  care  was  to  collect  his  letters  and  throw  them  all 
into  the  fire.  This  was  a  daily  custom.  He  seemed  to 
take  a  delight  in  heaping  fresh  responsibilities  upon  his 
memory. 


Tyars  Pays  a  Call.  157 

He  spent  the  morning  at  the  docks,  and  in  the  after- 
noon returned  to  his  rooms  tired  and  rather  dirty.  In  a 
few  minutes  all  signs  of  fatigue  and  work  were  removed, 
and  he  set  off  on  foot  to  call  at  Brook  Street,  one  of  the 
best-dressed  men  in  Piccadilly. 

There  was  a  sailor-like  frankness  in  the  way  in  which 
Salter,  the  admiral's  butler,  opened  the  door  when  the 
visitor  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  any  one  at  home. 
The  formal  threshold  question  was  dispensed  with  by  the 
genial  welcome  or  the  heartfelt  sorrow  expressed  by  the 
man's  brown  and  furrowed  face. 

He  welcomed  Tyars  with  a  special  grin  and  an  ill-con- 
cealed desire  to  grab  at  a  forelock  now  brushed  scrupu- 
lously back.  Salter  had  always  endeavored  through  life 
to  adapt  himself  ungrudgingly  to  circumstances,  and  he 
succeeded  fairly  well  in  remembering  on  most  occa- 
sions that  he  was  a  butler,  but  his  love  for  all  mariners 
was  a  thing  he  never  fully  managed  to  conceal.  Land- 
lubbers he  tolerated  now,  and  he  liked  a  soldier,  but  his 
honest  doglike  heart  went  out  to  all  who  like  himself 
loved  a  breeze  of  wind  and  the  sweet  keen  smell  of  spray. 
There  is  a  bond  in  mutual  love,  whether  it  be  of  dog  or 
horse,  of  sport  or  work,  of  land  or  sea,  and  Tyars  always 
felt  an  inclination  to  shake  honest  John  Salter  by  the  hand 
when  he  saw  him. 

To  these  feelings  of  sympathy  must  be  attributed  the 
fact  that  Tyars  forgot  to  inquire  whether  the  admiral 
were  at  home.  That  some  one  was  to  be  found  up-stairs 
in  the  drawing-room  was  obvious  enough  from  Salter's 
beaming  countenance,  but  the  maritime  butler  omitted 
to  give  particulars. 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  surprise  was  mutual  when 
Tyars  and  Helen  Grace  found  themselves  face  to  face 
alone  in  the  drawing-room. 


158  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

She  had  been  seated  at  a  small  table  near  the  window, 
and  she  rose  to  receive  him,  without  however  moving 
towards  the  door. 

He  came  forward  without  appearing  to  notice  a  slight 
movement  of  embarrassment  on  her  part,  and  shook 
hands.  Most  men  would  have  launched  into  unnecessary 
explanations  respecting  his  presence,  his  motive  for  com- 
ing, and  his  firm  resolve  to  leave  again  at  once.  But 
Claud  Tyars  occasionally  took  it  upon  himself  to  ignore 
the  usages  of  his  fellows. 

"  I  have  much  pleasure,"  he  said,  with  grave  jocularity, 
"  in  accepting  your  kind  invitation  to  dine  on  Wednesday 
week  ;  and  I  am  yours  truly,  Claud  Tyars." 

Helen  laughingly  expressed  her  pleasure  that  he  was 
able  to  come,  and  returned  to  her  chair  beside  the  little 
table.  She  was  quite  her  gentle,  contained  self  again. 
The  signs  of  embarrassment,  if  such  they  were,  had  quite 
disappeared,  and  she  asked  him  to  find  a  chair  for  him- 
self with  just  that  modicum  of  familiarity  which  one  allows 
oneself  towards  the  intimate  friend  of  a  brother  or  sister. 
This  he  did,  frankly  bringing  a  seat  nearer  to  the  small 
table. 

"If,"  he  continued,  "it  will  be  any  satisfaction  to 
your  hospitable  mind,  I  will  disclose  the  fact  that  my 
friend  Easton  is  also  able  to  avail  himself  of  your  kind- 
ness." 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said,  glancing  across  at  him  with 
those  gravely  questioning  eyes  of  hers,  which  somehow 
conjured  up  thoughts  of  olden  times,  of  quieter  days  when 
there  was  time  to  think  and  live  and  love.  They  pos- 
sessed the  directness  of  gaze  noticed  in  Oswin  Grace,  but 
softened  to  a  great  degree,  and  this  very  softness  was 
misleading.  It  disarmed  one,  for  we  all  judge  too  freely 
from  a  mere  turn  of  eyelid.  It  has  been  my  own  expe- 


Tyars  Pays  a  Call.  159 

riencethat  mild  and  gentle  eyes  see  just  as  much  as  those 
smaller  orbs  of  which  the  upper  and  lower  lid  would  lead 
one  to  look  for  great  keenness  of  observation. 

Miss  Winter  would  perhaps  have  been  surprised  to  learn 
that  Claud  Tyars  and  Oswin — also  Matthew  Mark  Easton 
later  on — dreaded  the  glance  and  question  of  Helen  Grace 
infinitely  more  than  the  inquisition  of  such  an  expe- 
rienced woman  of  the  world  as  herself.  We  all  know  the 
difference  between  outwitting  a  keen  diplomatist  and  de- 
ceiving a  harmless,  unsuspecting  young  girl.  There  is  an 
unpleasant  and  pathetic  self-reproach  in  worsting  a  foe 
unworthy  of  one's  steel.  Claud  Tyars  enjoyed  a  spar 
with  Miss  Winter,  while  he  quailed  inwardly  before 
Helen's  soft  eyes.  Providence  has  placed  in  the  hands 
of  the  guileless,  defensive  arms  of  which  those  possessing 
the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  have  no  suspicion. 

Miss  Winter  began  by  suspecting  Claud  Tyars  of  some 
secret  purpose,  and  in  her  intercourse  with  him  this  sus- 
picion would  have  been  obvious  to  a  much  less  observant 
man.  The  trifling  gestures,  glances,  words  that  betrayed 
this  feeling  would  have  been  retained  in  an  ordinary  mind, 
while  to  a  memory  like  his  the  links  of  the  chain  were 
each  one  evident.  Miss  Winter  treated  him  as  a  con- 
spirator and  as  a  possible  enemy  ;  Helen  took  an  infinitely 
cleverer  course — she  treated  him  frankly  as  a  friend. 

To  us  who  watch  these  people  from  one  side  it  cannot 
be  otherwise  than  manifest  that  this  treatment  was  hard 
to  cope  with.  Whatever  Claud  Tyars  might  be  at  heart, 
villain  or  hero  (and  I  set  him  up  as  neither),  this  girl's 
method  of  taking  him  as  she  found  him,  namely,  as  a 
friend,  could  not  fail  to  touch  the  best  and  manliest  in- 
stincts of  his  heart. 

If  any  of  us,  and  doubly  so  if  a  young  and  lovely 
maiden,  persistently  and  methodically  treat  a  traitor  as  a 


160  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

friend,  the  chances  are  very  much  against  the  survival  of 
treachery.  However  subtle,  however  deep  may  be  the 
traitor's  villainy,  human  nature  lives  somewhere  in  his 
black  heart,  and  that  one  touch  which  is  said  to  make  the 
whole  world  kin  can  only  be  imparted  by  the  hand  of 
Faith.  The  way  to  make  men  trustworthy  is  to  trust  in 
them.  And  Helen  Grace,  in  giving  way  to  the  intuition 
that  drew  her  towards  this  self-contained  gentleman,  as- 
sumed at  one  bound  a  power  over  him  far  and  away 
stronger  than  that  possessed  by  any  other  man  or  woman. 
After  her  words  of  politeness  there  was  a  short  silence, 
and  as  she  looked  at  her  companion  across  the  little  table 
a  glow  slowly  rose  over  her  throat  and  face.  Then,  as  if 
giving  way  to  a  sudden  impulse,  she  spoke. 


An  Explanation.  161 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AN    EXPLANATION. 

"  MR.  TYARS,"  she  said,  "  I  have  an  apology  to  make 
to  you." 

He  looked  at  her  without  speaking  for  some  moments. 
In  another  man  one  would  almost  have  suspected  a  desire 
to  prolong  the  contemplation  of  a  very  lovely,  shamed 
face. 

"  For  what  ?  "  he  said,  at  length. 

"For  disliking  you — I  mean  for  beginning  to  dislike 
you.  I  don't — I — that  was  at  first." 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said  with  quick  mercy,  "  if  you  know 
why  you  began  by  disliking  me." 

"I  think  I  do." 

He  smiled  and  turned  away  his  eyes  rather  suddenly. 
There  was  a  paper-knife  lying  on  the  table,  and  he  took 
it  up,  subsequently  balancing  it  on  his  finger,  while  she 
watched  him  with  vague  and  mechanical  interest. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said. 

"  Jealousy." 

"Ah!" 

He  glanced  almost  furtively  towards  her,  and  caught 
a  passing  smile.  It  was  now  his  turn  to  look  ill  at  ease. 
She  maintained  silence  in  a  determined  way  which  some- 
how threw  the  onus  of  the  pause  on  to  his  shoulders. 

At  last  he  threw  the  paper-knife  down  on  to  the  table 
with  a  clatter. 
zx 


1 6.2  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said,  almost  humbly.  "  I  have 
acted  like — a  coward." 

"  And  you  are  not  a  coward  ?  " 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.  The  glance  of  her  eyes  as 
they  rested  on  his  great  stalwart  frame  cancelled  the  in- 
terrogation. 

"  I  have  never  thought  so  until  now." 

She  shook  her  head  with  rather  a  wistful  smile. 

"  Then  I  have  reason,"  she  said,  "to  be  jealous.  You 
are  drawing  Oswin  away  from  me  ?  " 

Before  replying  he  rose,  and  during  the  rest  of  their 
conversation  he  never  took  a  seat  again,  but  continued 
moving  about  the  room  with  a  certain  strange  restlessness 
which  is  very  uncommon  in  big  men.  Its  presence  may 
generally  be  taken  to  denote  an  unusual  energy — an 
energy  of  that  description  which  leads  to  great  deeds  of 
some  sort  or  another.  There  was  a  little  carpeted  space 
between  the  fireplace  and  the  window,  and  here  he  paced 
backwards  and  forwards,  sometimes  stopping  at  the 
window,  sometimes  on  the  hearthrug.  The  action  so 
reminded  Helen  of  her  father  and  brother  (both  sailors) 
that  it  seemed  to  conjure  up  a  new  familiarity  between 
these  two  young  people. 

"  It  is,"  he  said,  "  a  long  story.  Are  you  prepared  for 
a  chapter  of  egotism  ?  It  is  all  about  myself." 

She  allowed  her  work  and  hands  to  fall  upon  her  lap, 
and  looked  towards  him  with  an  evident  interest  and 
curiosity  of  which  she  did  not  know  the  danger. 

"Yes,"  she  said.      "  Tell  me.     I   want    to  be  told." 

"  I  belong,"  he  said,  "to  such  a  quarrelsome  family 
that  I  have  practically  no  relations  in  the  world.  When 
my  father  married,  his  brothers  and  sisters  turned  their 
backs  upon  him.  When  he  died  they  quarreled  over  his 
dead  body  ;  when  my  mother  followed  him  they  quar- 


An  Explanation.  163 

reled  again.  I  was  a  little  chap  then,  but  I  told  them 
never  to  interfere  with  me  again,  and  they  have  not  for- 
gotten it.  I  am  practically  alone  in  the  world,  with  no 
one  to  rejoice  over  my  success  or  weep  over  my  failures. 
The  position  is  eminently  satisfactory.  Being  pig-headed, 
I  overruled  my  guardians,  and  had  practical  control  over 
my  own  income  at  college.  Of  course  unlimited  means 
at  one  of  the  Universities  usually  leads  to  a  rapid  descent 
to  the  dogs.  After  a  year,  I  found  I  was  no  nearer  the 
dogs,  than  I  had  been  at  first,  and,  strange  to  say,  had  no 
desire  for  further  progress.  I  began  to  find  that  I  was 
different  from  my  contemporaries,  inasmuch  as  they  all 
had  relatives  and  most  of  them  possessed  prospects  of 
some  sort.  Many  had  livings,  or  commissions,  or  appoint- 
ments waiting  for  them.  I  had  nothing.  All  this  caused 
me  to  wonder  why  I  had  been  created,  and  what  I  should 
do  with  myself  in  the  world.  A  sort  of  superstition  crept 
into  my  mind.  I  began  to  attach  an  importance  to  out- 
ward circumstances.  In  my  conceit  I  imagined  that  Provi- 
dence had  gone  out  of  her  way  to  create  me  for  some 
special  purpose.  I  was  athletic,  and  was  considered  one 
of  the  soundest  human  animals  at  Cambridge.  There 
was  not  a  flaw  anywhere ;  I  have  never  had  anything 
worse  than  a  headache  all  my  life.  You  see,  I  had  health, 
wealth,  strength,  and  perfect  independence.  I  looked 
round  and  saw  that  I  was  almost  alone  in  this  position, 
and  my  blessings  grew  into  a  sort  of  responsibility.  I 
felt  that  I  ought  to  do  something,  that  I  had  no  right  to 
hoard  up  the  capital  Providence  had  given  me." 

Here  he  paused,  half-way  between  the  window  and  the 
fireplace. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  for  the  first  time,  "  I 
met  Matthew  Mark  Easton  !  " 

She  gave  a  little  nod  as  if  urging  him  to  continue  his 


164  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

narrative.  Her  eyes  were  following  him  with  much  more 
interest  than  prudent  young  women  should  show  in  mem- 
bers of  the  opposite  sex  ;  for  men  being  deprived  of  open 
flattery  are  ready  enough  to  imagine  it  for  themselves. 

"  He  is,"  continued  Tyars,  "the  very  opposite  to  me 
from  a  physical  point  of  view.  He  has  hardly  an  organ 
in  full  working  order,  and  consequently  his  brain  works 
harder.  He  is  a  cleverer  man  than  I.  I  am  strong,  but 
I  am  not  clever,  Miss  Grace.  Easton  is  an  originator, 
and  he  is  an  orator.  He  showed  me  what  there  was  for 
me  to  do  in  the  world.  I  recognized  the  truth  of  his 
arguments  and  took  up  my  mission." 

"  What  is  your  mission  ?  "  she  asked. 

Again  he  stopped.  He  stood  before  her  with  his  strong 
arms  hanging  motionless,  his  great  brown  hands  half  closed 
and  quite  still,  as  they  always  were  unless  actually  at 
work.  He  certainly  was  a  picture  of  strength,  a  per- 
fect specimen  of  the  human  animal  as  he  had  called  him- 
self. But  with  it  all  he  was  not  dense.  Perhaps  he  judged 
himself  from  other  big  men  when  he  told  Helen  Grace 
that  his  muscular  force  was  greater  than  his  brain  power. 
If  so  his  estimate  was  unnecessarily  humble,  ignoring  as 
it  did  his  wonderful  memory,  carrying  with  it  quite  a  le- 
gion of  such  qualities  as  are  required  for  every-day  com- 
petition with  our  fellow-men.  It  is  probable  that  he  was 
quite  unconscious  of  the  possession  of  another  power, 
namely,  that  of  managing  his  neighbors.  It  was  the  genius 
of  command,  and  he  wielded  it  without  recognition.  This 
same  genius  is  often  found  in  strange  places  ;  some  small 
and  fragile  women  have  it,  and  that  is  why  many  big  hus- 
bands are  bullied. 

"  Arctic  exploration,"  he  answered.  "  I  mean  to  reach 
the  North  Pole  some  day." 

It  happened  that  Helen  knew  a  good  deal  about  Arctic 


"  What  is  your  mission  ? ''      Page  164. 


An  Explanation.  165 

matters.  The  admiral  had  been  bitten  by  the  strange 
craze  in  his  younger  days.  Like  many  others  he  had 
for  a  time  given  way  to  the  spirit  of  exploration  which  is 
hidden  somewhere  in  every  Englishman's  heart.  Every 
book  of  Arctic  travel  yet  printed  was  to  be  found 
in  his  smoke-scented  den,  and  Helen  had  read  most  of 
them. 

She  knew  therefore  what  the  end  would  be.  To  hear 
a  man  say  that  he  intends  to  reach  the  North  Pole  is  one 
thing,  to  know  what  he  is  talking  about  and  believe  in  his 
intention  is  quite  another.  To  Helen  Grace  the  fuller 
knowledge  was  given,  and  she  sat  looking  at  Claud  Tyars 
with  a  dull  anguish  in  her  eyes. 

"  And  you  want  Oswin  ?  "  she  whispered. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  turned  away  as  from  something 
that  he  could  not  face,  and  stood  by  the  window  looking 
down  into  the  street. 

He  was  what  is  vaguely  called  a  gentleman.  There 
are  certain  points  of  honor  which  we  Englishmen  learn 
at  school,  and  there  are,  thank  heaven  !  not  many  of  us 
who  find  pleasure  in  deceiving  one  who  is  weaker  than 
ourselves.  Could  he  have  explained  all,  it  would  have 
been  so  different.  Naturally  slow  of  speech  as  he  was,  he 
felt  then  that  he  could  have  pleaded  to  this  girl  a  cause 
which  he  honestly  thought  a  true  and  righteous  one.  His 
mind  reverted  to  Matthew  Mark  Easton ;  he  thought  of 
the  quaint  little  American  with  his  strange  eloquence,  and 
felt  that  he  at  all  events  would  have  carried  all  before 
him  with  the  sister  of  Oswin  Grace.  But  they  were  all 
three  tongue-tied.  They  could  not  appeal  to  her,  point- 
ing out  that  she  had  not  grudged  her  brother  for  a  service 
of  great  humanity,  and  that  this  was  only  a  greater  sacri- 
fice for  a  greater  cause.  This  is  no  place  to  draw  com- 
parisons between  the  two  great  blots  upon  this  fair  earth. 


1 66  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

There  is,  however,  no  comparison.  Siberia  is  a  nearer 
approach  to  hell  on  earth  than  Africa. 

Helen  Grace  naturally  argued  that  she  was  called  upon 
to  give  up  her  only  brother,  indeed  almost  the  only  con- 
temporary relative  she  possessed,  in  order  to  further  the 
ambition  of  one  man.  And  this  man  had  come  to  her 
coolly  announcing  his  demand. 

He  stood  beside  the  window  not  moving  a  muscle.  All 
this  had  been  thought  out.  This  interview  had  been  fore- 
seen. Oswin  had  asked  that  he  might  break  the  news 
to  his  sister  and  father,  but  Tyars  had  claimed  the  right 
himself.  His  was  the  onus,  and  his  must  be  the  blame. 
There  was  no  desire  to  shirk  responsibility  ;  indeed  he 
seemed  to  court  it.  Helen  Grace  must  be  deceived — it 
was  a  contemptible  thing  to  do,  a  dirty  task — and  he  would 
have  none  other  but  himself.  He  stubbornly  took  it  all 
upon  his  own  shoulders. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Helen,  at  last,  "that  he  wants  to 

go." 

"  Of  course,"  was  the  answer.  "  What  English  sailor 
would  not  ?  But  I  persuaded  him — the  fault  is  all 
mine." 

She  looked  up  sharply. 

"  And  Mr.  Easton  ?  "  she  inquired,  with  keen  logic. 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes.  But  I  chose  your  brother.  The  mat- 
ter rests  with  me,  and  .  .  .  the  blame." 

"What  has  Mr.  Easton  to  do  with  it?"  she  asked, 
and  he  knew  that  she  was  already  prejudiced  against  the 
American. 

"  He  is  getting  up  the  expedition — the  first  one." 

"  And  he  goes  with  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Tyars,  "  1  have  already  told  you — he  is 
physically  incapacitated." 

She  gave  a  little  laugh — a  very  unpleasant  laugh  for  a 


An  Explanation.  167 

man  to  hear  from  the  lips  of  a  woman.  Fortunately 
Matthew  Mark  Easton  was  spared  the  cruelty  of  hearing 
it.  Then  she  relapsed  into  silence  again,  and  they  re- 
mained thus  for  some  moments. 

At  last  she  spoke,  without  looking  towards  him. 

"  I  like  you,"  she  said,  "for  telling  me.  There  were 
so  many  other  ways  of  doing  it — so  many  easier  ways  for 
you — but  you  chose  to  tell  me  yourself." 

To  this  he  said  nothing.  Despite  his  capable  air,  de- 
spite an  unusual  rapidity  of  thought  which  took  the  form 
of  action  in  emergencies,  he  was  not  able  to  reel  off  glib 
phrases  at  the  proper  moment. 

Suddenly  her  proud  self-restraint  seemed  to  give  way. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  softly,  almost  pleading,  "that 
nothing  will  deter  you  ?  " 

He  turned  and  came  towards  her. 

"  One  word  from  you  would  deter  me,"  he  said,  "  but 
I  do  not  think  that  you  will  say  it." 

"  No,"  she  answered  with  a  smile  ;  "  I  am  not  going  to 
ask  you  to  let  my  brother  off." 

"I  did  not  know  how  he  was  circumstanced  when  I 
first  met  him,"  said  Tyars  in  self-excuse,  "  I  did  not  know, 
of  your  existence." 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  with  a  little  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  "  I  am  not  going  to  be  silly  and  stand  in  my 
brother's  way.  Only  it  would  have  been  so  much  better 
could  you  have  found  some  one — like  yourself — without 
brother  or  sister,  or  any  one  to  care  much  for  him.  It  is 
not  only  for  myself  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  suddenly.  There  was  a  moment  of  tense 
silence.  Then  he  slowly  approached  her  until  the  little 
table  alone  separated  them. 

"  Miss  Grace,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

She  was  not  the  kind  of  woman  to  resort  to  subterfuge 


1 68  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

or  useless  denial,  and  she  therefore  held  her  tongue.  At 
the  same  time  she  began  to  feel  very  helpless.  With  Os- 
win,  with  her  father,  and  with  all  men  whom  she  had 
hitherto  known,  she  could  hold  her  own,  but  with  Claud 
Tyars  it  was  different.  There  was  in  his  presence  a  force 
which  did  not  take  the  form  of  words.  He  merely  stood 
still,  and  his  silence  was  stronger  than  any  words  she  had 
yet  heard.  Then  he  spoke  slowly  and  quite  gently — 

"  You  must  tell  me,"  he  said,  "what  you  mean." 

She  glanced  up  at  him  appealingly  beneath  her  lashes, 
at  bay  and  yet  almost  mastered. 

He  softened  a  little. 

"  Unless,"  he  added,  "  it  would  be  a  breach  of  confi- 
dence." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  it  is  not  that ;  for  no  one  has 
confided  in  me.  But  I  think  ..." 

"  You  are  not  sure  ?  "  he  interrupted  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Tyars,  I  am  sure." 

He  turned  away  again  and  went  towards  the  window. 
She  mechanically  took  up  her  work,  and  for  some  time 
both  were  fully  occupied  with  their  own  thoughts. 

As  stated  previously,  Helen  Grace  knew  as  much  about 
Arctic  matters  as  any  one  who  had  not  been  over  the 
frozen  threshold  could  well  know.  It  is  not  given  to  us  all 
to  pass  that  threshold,  to  step  into  the  great  silent  North, 
where  all  things  seem  to  be  waiting.  Waiting  for  what  ? 
— none  can  tell ;  but  that  is  undoubtedly  the  sense  im- 
parted by  the  atmosphere  of  the  Arctic  circle.  In  the  cold 
black  rocks,  in  the  lapping  of  the  dead  waves  round  the 
ice-floes  ;  in  the  very  creak  of  the  restless  ice  itself  there 
is  a  great  expectancy.  The  gray  birds  as  they  wheel 
slowly  in  the  gray  sky  seem  to  say,  "  We  are  waiting." 
And  the  seal  says  it,  and  the  long-legged  hare  running 
noiselessly,  as  if  fearing  to  disturb  God's  great  silence. 


An  Explanation.  169 

The  prowling  wolf,  the  shambling  bear,  all  confess  to  an 
incompleteness.  If  any  man  say  that  the  world  is  com- 
plete, that  all  things  are  finished,  that  the  end  is  near,  let 
him  go  to  the  frozen  North.  If  he  have  eyes  to  see,  and  ears 
to  hear,  he  cannot  fail  to  recognize  that  there  is  yet  some- 
thing to  be  done.  In  all  parts  of  the  habitable  earth  nature 
is  complete,  self-sufficing,  independent ;  but  in  the  twilit 
zone  there  is  something  still  to  be  accomplished ;  some- 
thing wrong — something  to  be  evolved  in  God's  good  time. 
a  few  lives  have  been  thrown  away — a  few  bones  are 
lying  yonder ;  but  it  is  only  the  matter  of  a  mile  or  two 
for  which  we  compete.  Some  are  allowed  to  reach  a 
greater  latitude  than  others,  some  sail  in  clear  water  where 
others  have  been  crushed  in  midsummer.  Some  penetrate 
far  across  the  border,  while  the  majority  of  us  turn  back 
at  the  very  threshold  ;  but  we  all  bring  away  in  our  hearts 
the  same  conviction,  whether  we  speak  of  it  or  no,  namely, 
that  man  was  never  meant  to  go  there  yet. 

The  short  winter  day  was  drawing  in  before  Claud 
Tyars  left  Brook  Street.  As  he  shook  hands  with  Helen 
he  said — 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Miss  Winter  the  other 
evening." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Helen  ;  "  she  told  me." 

That  was  all,  but  they  understood  each  other.  A  stress 
upon  a  single  word,  a  glance,  a  little  hesitation,  will  say 
so  much  that  cannot  be  set  down  in  print.  The  unfinished 
conversation  was  terminated.  Claud  Tyars  knew  that 
there  was  some  one  else  to  watch  and  wait  for  Oswin 
Grace  if  he  went  to  the  Arctic  seas. 

He  had  only  been  in  the  room  an  hour — a  dismal  Novem- 
ber afternoon  hour — and  yet  there  was  a  difference  in  his 
life  as  he  left  the  door.  It  does  not  take  long  to  make  a  friend. 


170  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  LAST  MEETING. 

THERE  is  no  cloak  for  tears  like  laughter.  He  is  a  strong 
man  who  merely  does  nothing  in  the  midst  of  tears.  Most 
men  either  laugh  or  weep,  but  some  there  are  who  remain 
grave. 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  was  not  a  strong  man.  The  last 
meeting  of  the  association  he  was  pleased  to  call  "Guy 
Fawkes"was  looked  forward  to  by  him  with  positive 
dread.  This  was  not  the  outcome  of  a  great  responsibility. 
He  did  not  hold  himself  responsible  for  Pavloski  and  his 
three  compatriots,  for  he  knew  well  enough  that  he  him- 
self was  but  a  means  to  the  end.  If  these  four  Russians 
had  not  met  with  him,  they  would  still  have  gone  to 
Siberia ;  for  they  were  branded,  their  souls  were  seared 
by  the  hot  iron — the  thrice-heated  iron  of  unquenchable 
vengeance. 

The  truth  was  that  the  little  American  had  a  warm 
heart.  He  had  learnt  to  like  these  men,  to  respect  the 
curse  of  their  nationality  ;  for  to  him  it  was  naught  else 
than  a  curse.  And,  indeed,  no  man  would  willingly  be  a 
Russian — no  man  worth  his  salt. 

This  meeting  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Many 
times  had  these  six,  and  latterly  seven,  men  met  in  the 
American's  room.  They  were  bound  together  by  the 
ties  of  a  joint  interest,  by  the  riven  bond  of  a  common 
danger. 


The  Last  Meeting.  171 

To-night  they  were  to  meet  again  ;  they  were  to  partake 
once  more  of  the  open-handed  transatlantic  hospitality, 
and  in  all  human  probability  the  same  seven  men  would 
never  stand  under  one  roof  again.  Of  course  such  things 
happen  every  day.  It  is  no  good  waxing  sentimental. 
Avaunt,  mawkish  melancholy  !  Sensible  men  and  women 
like  ourselves  do  not  worry  about  such  trifles.  It  is  much 
better  to  take  it  cheerfully,  as  did  Matthew  Mark  Easton. 
Provide  oysters  and  champagne — especially  champagne, 
it  is  a  rare  specific — and  crack  jokes.  Only  do  not  laugh 
at  them  too  loud  and  too  quickly,  as  if  it  does  not  matter 
much  about  the  joke  so  long  as  the  laugh  is  sonorous. 
But  above  all  avoid  any  reference  to  the  future,  because 
in  the  loudest  of  laughter  there  are  pauses — some  jokes 
fall  flat,  and  moments  of  thoughtful  ness  creep  in. 

Sergius  Pavloski  was  the  first  to  arrive.  Immaculate, 
cold,  and  self-contained  as  usual ;  his  old-fashioned  dress 
clothes  scrupulously  brushed,  his  large  amethyst  shirt- 
studs  brightly  polished.  There  was  a  steady  glitter  in  his 
unpleasantly  veiled  eyes,  but  his  manners  were  always 
suave  and  courtly. 

"  Ah,  Smith  t  "  cried  Easton  ;  "  punctual  as  usual. 
We  business  men  know  its  value,  eh  ? — especially  at  meal- 
times. I've  got  a  new  box  of  caviare,  my  boy.  Found 
it  in  a  German  Delicatessen- Handlung  in  Wardour  Street. 
The  real  thing,  in  a  white  china  box ;  looks  like  saddle- 
paste." 

He  drew  his  guest  to  a  little  side-table,  where  liqueurs 
and  a  few  delicacies  were  set  out  in  the  Russian  fashion, 
and  they  gravely  examined  the  caviare  which  had  been 
purposely  left  in  the  small  china  box,  bearing  a  printed 
label  in  Russian  characters,  as  one  sees  it  in  the  Newski 
Prospect  shop-windows. 

The  interest  which  Pavloski  displayed  in  this  small  waif 


172  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

from  his  own  land  was  a  trifle  too  eager  to  be  quite  natural. 
Easton  made  little  jokes  about  the  beneficial  effect  likely 
to  accrue  to  his  rusty  Russian  by  the  consumption  of 
caviare,  and  they  got  through  the  bad  quarter  of  an  hour 
somehow,  until  the  bell  rang  again.  They  were  acting  a 
part  most  obviously,  and  rather  badly. 

The  little  office  in  the  city  had  been  almost  their  home 
for  the  last  two  years,  and  within  its  four  bare  walls  they 
had  worked  together  steadily,  and  with  that  restrained 
enthusiasm  which  turns  out  good  labor.  The  two  heads 
bowed  together  over  the  little  box  of  preserved  fish  had 
hatched  and  conceived  a  most  wondrous  plot.  They  had 
talked  of  many  things  together ;  had  counted  lives  as 
other  men  count  their  money. 

Easton  knew  more  of  this  man's  history  than  any  other 
human  being.  He  alone  knew  that  Sergius  Pavloski  was, 
of  all  the  seven  associates,  by  far  the  most  dangerous 
man  ;  that  to  him  human  life,  whether  his  own  or  that  of 
another,  was  not  a  sacred  thing  at  all.  And  now  the 
great  scheme  was  maturing.  The  first  decisive  move  had 
been  made.  Pavloski  was  to  leave  England  in  twenty- 
four  hours.  The  little  office  was  closed  ;  their  joint  labors 
were  finished. 

When  the  guests  were  assembled,  Easton  led  the  way 
to  another  room,  where  dinner  was  served.  He  had 
carried  out  his  intention  of  offering  to  his  guests  the  best 
that  could  be  procured  for  money,  and  full  justice  was 
done  to  the  fare  provided.  The  usual  silence  upon  the 
subject  of  their  meeting  was  observed  until  the  meal  was 
over,  and  all  chairs  were  drawn  round  the  fire. 

Then  the  informal  proceedings  commenced.  Matthew 
Mark  Easton  was  a  trifle  more  restless  than  usual  ;  his 
mobile  features  alternated  between  grave  and  gay,  while 
his  dancing  eyes  were  never  still.  He  fidgeted  at  times 


The  Last  Meeting.  173 

with  his  slim  hands,  and  referred  constantly  to  the  lighted 
end  of  his  cigarette. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  we  have  done  a  vast  deal  of 
talking,  and  now  at  last  some  of  us  are  going  into  action. 
Of  course  I  have  done  the  most  talking,  and  now  that  the 
time  for  action  has  come,  I  occupy  a  retired  seat  in  the 
background.  That  is  the  good  God's  dispensation,  not 
mine.  But  I  hope  that  the  result  of  all  my  talking  will  be 
useful  in  the  hereafter.  Each  one  of  you  knows  his  part, 
and  each  one  of  you,  of  course,  will  do  his  best ;  I  know 
that — at  least  I  surmise  so.  The  three  gentlemen  who 
leave  us  to-night  for  Siberia  take  absolutely  nothing  with 
them  except  a  little  money.  There  are  no  maps,  no 
letters,  no  instructions,  nothing  that  an  enemy  can  get 
hold  of.  We  have,  however,  taken  measures  to  supply 
them  with  money  at  various  stages  of  the  journey.  We 
have  also  completed  a  method  of  communication,  by 
means  of  which  the  safe  progress  of  the  travelers  can 
from  time  to  time  be  reported  to  St.  Petersburg,  and 
subsequently  to  the  headquarters  in  London.  But  in  case 
of  partial  failure — if,  I  mean,  one  of  you  should  .  .  .  fail 
— it  is  quite  understood  that  the  others  go  on.  Mr.  Tyars 
undertakes  to  get  his  ship  round  Cape  Chelyuskin,  and 
to  wait  for  you  at  the  meeting-place  arranged,  namely, 
the  westernmost  mouth  of  the  river  Yana,  not  far  from 
Oust  Yansk,  where  we  have  a  good  friend.  On  the  tenth 
of  July  he  sails  from  thence  to  complete  the  Northeast 
passage,  and  reach  the  coast  of  Alaska.  That  date, 
gentlemen,  is  fixed.  If  no  one  comes  to  meet  him  he  goes 
on  alone,  but  he  hopes  to  see  you  all  three,  and  each  with 
a  party  not  exceeding  fifteen  persons." 

The  three  men  turned  their  dull  eyes  towards  the  two 
Englishmen  seated  side  by  side,  and  the  American  seeing 
the  action  paused.  Unconsciously  the  seven  men  as- 


174  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

sembled  had  grouped  themselves  into  order.  The  stout 
Russian  and  Easton  were  seated  side  by  side  with  their 
backs  to  the  table,  and  on  their  left  were  placed  the  three 
young  Russians,  while  on  the  right  the  two  British  sailors 
sat  side  by  side — a  big  man  and  a  small  one — the  lesser 
and  the  greater  power. 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  what  thoughts  passed  through 
the  minds  of  these  five  men.  A  better  pen  than  mine 
could  scarce  lift  one  corner  of  the  veil.  Now  they  were 
seated  in  a  warm  room,  surrounded  by  comfort ;  when 
next  they  met,  if  they  were  destined  ever  to  see  each 
other  again,  it  would  be  far  within  the  Arctic  circle. 
The  three  foreigners  were  virtually  placing  their  lives  and 
those  of  their  friends  in  the  hands  of  these  two  resolute 
navigators,  and  they  did  it  with  the  impassive  coldness 
which  is  such  a  terrible  curse  to  the  Slavonic  race. 
Each  pair  of  eyes  seemed  to  say,  "  I  wonder  if  you  will 
meet  us  there,"  but  nothing  more.  The  two  sailors 
smiled  in  response.  They  belonged  to  a  different  race — 
a  race  that  smiles  but  rarely  laughs,  that  acts  but  rarely 
threatens,  a  race  which  (as  may  be  learnt  from  history) 
has  fought  Nature,  more  successfully  than  any  other. 
And  this  was  a  fight  with  Nature.  She  is  an  enemy  that 
is  sometimes  very  careless,  but  on  the  other  hand  she 
knows  no  mercy.  There  were  no  protestations,  no  vows 
to  do  or  die.  It  must  be  remembered  that  these  conspir- 
ators belonged  to  the  nineteenth  century,  a  century  much 
given  to  sliding,  and  little  addicted  to  protestations  of  any 
description.  The  three  Russians  merely  gazed  with  their 
singularly  expressionless  eyes,  and  the  Englishman  smiled 
in  a  ludicrously  characteristic  way.  Then  Easton  went 
on — 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  the  distances  are  enormous  ; 
but  we  have  endeavored  to  equalize  them  as  much  as 


The  Last  Meeting.  175 

possible.  The  meeting  point  has  been  fixed  with  a  view 
to  this.  It  is  the  southernmost  anchorage  obtainable  east 
of  Cape  Chelyuskin,  though  it  is  far  within  the  Arctic 
circle.  Of  course  secrecy  is  the  chief  aim,  and  has  been 
the  chief  aim  we  have  kept  in  view  all  along.  Each  of  you 
knows  his  own  department,  and  that  only.  Each  of  you 
keeps  to  himself  the  meeting-place  and  the  date,  not  even 
divulging  them  to  the  rescued  exiles  under  your  care. 
We  have  succeeded,  I  surmise,  in  keeping  our  scheme 
completely  secret.  No  one  knows  of  it  except  ourselves, 
not  even  the  Nihilist  party  in  London.  We  must  re- 
member that  we  are  not  Nihilists,  but  merely  seven  men 
engaged  upon  a  private  enterprise.  We  have  friends  who 
have  been  unjustly  exiled,  many  of  them  without  a  trial — 
upon  mere  suspicion.  We  are  attempting  to  rescue  those 
friends,  that  is  all." 

"  Yes,"  echoed  the  stout  man,  speaking  for  the  first 
time,  "that  is  all.  I  seek  my  daughter." 

"  And  I  my  sister,"  said  one. 

"  And  I  my  brother,"  said  another. 

"  It  is,"  added  Pavloski,  slowly,  "  a  wife  with  me." 

Tyars  and  Grace  said  nothing.  They  had  not  quite 
thought  it  out,  and  were  unprepared  with  a  reason.  Eas- 
ton  was  more  at  ease  now.  He  lighted  a  cigarette,  and 
consulted  a  little  note-book  hitherto  concealed  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket. 

"  I  have  endeavored,"  he  continued,  without  taking 
his  eyes  from  the  pocket-book,  "to  make  every  depart- 
ment independent  as  much  as  possible.  For  instance,  my 
own  death  would  in  no  wise  affect  the  expedition.  The 
money  and  information  would  after  such  an  event  con- 
tinue to  filter  through  to  Siberia  by  the  pre-arranged 
channels.  In  case  of  the  death  or  imprisonment  of  our 
agent  in  St.  Petersburg  the  same  communications  would 


176  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

be  kept  open.  We  each  have  a  substitute,  and  the  ar- 
rangements are  so  simple  that  these  substitutes  will  have 
no  difficulty  in  carrying  them  out.  I  need  scarcely  tell 
you  that  heavy  bribes  have  been  sent  to  the  right  quarters 
in  Siberia — high  official  quarters." 

The  stout  man  grunted  in  a  knowing  way,  and  signified 
by  a  little  nod  of  the  head  that  no  further  interruption 
need  be  feared. 

"  In  Russia,"  continued  Easton,  turning  the  pages  of 
his  note-book,  "we  all  know  that  every  official  has  his 
price.  The  only  difficulty  lies  in  the  discovery  of  that  price. 
The  only  parts  that  have  not  been  doubled  are  those  of 
the  three  gentlemen  who  go  out  to  Siberia  to  organize  the 
escape  of  the  prisoners  and  exiles.  I  surmise  that  it  is 
unnecessary  to  point  out  that  these  parts  cannot  be 
doubled.  There  are  not  three  other  such  men  to  be  found. 
As  to  our  ship,  she  was  built  for  Arctic  service,  and  has 
been  thoroughly  strengthened  above  and  below  under  the 
personal  supervision  of  Mr.  Tyars  and  myself.  In  Mr. 
Tyars  and  Lieutenant  Grace  we  have  two  sailors  emi- 
nently calculated  to  bear  the  strain  that  will  be  put  upon 
them.  Humanly  speaking  they  may  be  trusted  to  do  all 
that  man  can  do,  to  get  the  Argo  round  Cape  Chelyuskin 
to  the  rendezvous  by  the  date  named.  It  has  always 
been  understood  between  us  that  mutual  trust  and  mu- 
tual assistance  are  things  to  be  taken  without  saying. 
We  all  trust  each  other,  and  in  case  of  failure,  partial  or  en- 
tire, no  blame  is  to  be  attached  to  any  individual.  This 
is  our  last  meeting  in  London.  Some  of  us  may  see  each 
other  again.  I  trust  to  God  we  shall.  I  trust  that  He  who 
knows  no  nationalities  will  bring  five  of  you  together  again 
next  summer." 

There  was  a  pause.  Matthew  Mark  Easton  turned  the 
pages  of  his  note-book  in  a  vague,  aimless  way.  Then 


The  Last  Meeting.  177 

suddenly  he  rose,  threw  his  cigarette  into  the  fire,  and 
turning  to  the  table,  drew  forward  the  decanters.  He 
poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  wine,  which  he  drank,  keep- 
ing his  back  towards  his  guests.  Then  in  that  same  posi- 
tion, without  looking  round,  he  spoke  in  a  low  tone  of 
voice — 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  my  report  is  finished." 
There  followed  upon  this  a  painful  silence.  The  Rus- 
sians looked  at  each  other  vaguely.  None  of  them  were 
good  English  scholars,  though  they  all  understood  the  lan- 
guage perfectly,  and  spoke  it  without  marked  accent. 
Perhaps  also  no  one  of  them  had  anything  very  special  to 
say.  Just  as  the  pause  became  embarrassing  Tyars  took 
the  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  spoke  with  that  high-bred 
calmness  which  is  at  times  a  trifle  aggravating. 

"  I  have  thought  it  necessary,"  he  said,  "  to  give  out 
the  information  that  I  am  fitting  up  a  private  Arctic  expe- 
dition, of  which  the  object  is  the  exploration  of  the  North- 
eastern passage.  My  reasons  for  doing  this  are  numer- 
ous. It  is  difficult  to  fit  up  a  ship  in  London  without 
attracting  the  attention  of  maritime  newspapers,  and  it  is 
imperative  that  suspicion  be  averted  from  the  first.  I  had 
the  misfortune  to  get  into  the  newspapers  a  few  months 
ago,  and  a  society  journal,  on  the  staff  of  which  are  two 
college  contemporaries  of  my  own,  has  taken  the  trouble 
to  inquire  publicly  what  I  was  doing  on  board  a  merchant- 
man in  the  West  Indies.  A  certain  amount  of  publicity 
will  insure  the  information  reaching  the  Russian  authori- 
ties that  an  expedition  is  to  start  in  the  spring,  and  our 
presence  on  the  north  coast  will  then  cause  no  surprise  or 
suspicion.  Again,  Arctic  exploration  is  a  matter  of  keen 
interest  in  England,  and  a  few  short  paragraphs  in  the 
leading  newspapers  will  not  only  give  me  the  choice  of 
the  best  men  obtainable,  but  will  lead  to  an  influx  of  vol- 

12 


178  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

unteered  information  and  advice  from  whaling  captains 
and  former  explorers." 

There  was  a  businesslike  terseness  about  the  announce- 
ments of  this  man  which,  while  in  keeping  with  his  calling 
(a  calling  which  cannot  afford  to  look  on  the  shady  side  of 
things),  seemed  to  volunteer  the  information  that  he,  at 
all  events,  was  not  prepared  to  bear  part  in  an  affecting 
leave-taking.  The  result  of  this  was  that  the  party  broke 
up  with  a  mere  shake  of  the  hand,  and  the  last  meeting  of 
this  strange  conspiracy  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 

These  men  had  been  from  the  first  singularly  careless 
respecting  outward  things.  They  totally  ignored  from 
first  to  last  the  picturesqueness  of  conspiracy,  the  romance 
of  secrecy,  the  dramatic  intensity  of  their  situation.  It 
is  a  painful  duty  to  record  that  they  lighted  fresh  cigars 
and  drove  away  in  hansom  cabs. 


A  Dinner-Party.  179 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A  DINNER-PARTY. 

MOST  men  pass  through  life  without  finding  themselves 
in  direct  opposition  to  a  good  woman.  With  other  women 
it  is  of  course  another  matter ;  but  few  of  us  really  fear 
bad  women.  Their  power  is  not  so  great  as  is  generally 
supposed  by  anxious  mothers. 

Those  men  who  usually  find  themselves  opposed  by 
good  women  are  not  the  best  of  the  species,  and  fortu- 
nately they  form  the  minority.  The  bad  make  the 
greatest  stir  in  the  world,  but  the  good  and  the  indifferent 
form  together  an  overwhelming  majority,  and  despite  bib- 
lical teaching  it  is  always  a  consolation  to  suppose  that 
there  is  a  strong  dividing  line  between  badness  and  indif- 
ference. When  a  poll  is  demanded,  and  they  are  forced 
to  vote,  the  indifferent  ones  sometimes  bring  about  a  won- 
drous majority,  and  show  themselves  surprisingly  keen- 
sighted. 

Claud  Tyars  had  now  declared  war.  The  gauntlet  was 
thrown  down,  and  there  was  one  person  from  whose  an- 
tagonistic glance  he  would  fain  have  withdrawn  it ;  we, 
most  of  us,  have  felt  this  at  one  time  or  another,  this 
vague  misgiving  that  the  wrong  person  will  pick  up  our 
defiant  glove — the  one  person  in  the  neighborhood  whom 
we  fear. 

As  Tyars  entered  the  drawing-room  on  the  evening  of 
the  dinner-party  at  Brook  Street,  he  mentally  pulled 


180  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

himself  together  for  the  fray.  Miss  Winter  was  there,  of 
course,  and  in  her  battle  array.  She  was  dressed  as  he 
had  never  seen  her  dressed  before,  with  all  the  cunning 
gathered  from  a  mature  experience.  Not  as  a  girl,  but  as 
herself,  for  she  knew  how  to  array  to  full  advantage  a 
most  perfect  figure.  She  did  not  look  up  as  Tyars  and 
Easton  entered  the  room,  but  continued  to  talk  gaily  with 
a  vastly  courteous  old  mariner. 

Helen  came  forward,  shook  hands  with  Tyars,  and  re- 
ceived the  American  very  graciously.  The  admiral  was 
at  her  skirts,  and  Tyars  included  him  in  the  introduc- 
tion. 

With  inimitable  sang-froid  Easton  proceeded  to  make 
himself  agreeable  in  the  slightly  ponderous  style  affected 
by  his  countrymen.  This  maneuver  left  Helen  and 
Tyars  alone  for  a  moment. 

"  Does,"  inquired  he  at  once,  "  Miss  Winter  know  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile  which  was  the 
veriest  reflex  of  his  own.  They  had  already  learnt  to  de- 
ceive onlookers,  and  any  one  watching  their  conversa- 
tion from  across  the  room  would  have  decided  at  once 
that  the  merest  commonplaces  were  in  course  of  ex- 
change. 

"Yes;  every  one  knows.  It  was  in  the  Times  this 
morning." 

"  I  thought  they  did,"  laughed  Tyars,  softly  :  "uthey 
are  staring  me  up  and  down  like  a  wild  animal." 

"  They  are  old  sailors,  you  see." 

"  So  I  guessed,"  replied  Tyars.  "  But  they  do  not 
know  about  your  brother — Miss  Winter  ?  " 

"She  guesses,"  whispered  Helen,  hurriedly.  Then 
aloud — "  Come  and  let  me  introduce  you  to  some  of  my 
friends." 

He  followed  her  and    went   through    the   ceremony 


A  Dinner- Party.  181 

with  that  peculiar  lack  of  enthusiasm  which  frequently 
caused  him  to  be  misjudged  by  strangers.  It  would  appear 
that  he  was  so  absorbed  in  his  one  idea  that  things  not 
bearing  directly  upon  it  failed  to  interest  him.  These  old 
men  and  their  wives,  also  their  daughters,  were  useless 
to  him,  and  therefore  he  was  polite,  so  polite  as  to  be  al- 
most rude.  He  failed  utterly  to  convey  to  them  by  smile 
and  glance  that  the  moment  of  meeting  them  was  the 
apogee  of  his  existence — that  life  was  now  complete,  and 
that  he  would  ever  cherish  them  as  his  dearest  friends. 
Now  we  all  know  that  without  the  constant  and  repeated 
conveyance  of  these  sentiments  no  one  can  expect  to  get 
on  in  society.  People  do  not  believe  them,  but  they  like 
to  be  offered  the  choice  of  doing  so. 

Tyars  had  only  time  to  exchange  a  bow  with  Miss 
Winter  before  dinner  was  announced. 

"  Tyars,"  the  admiral  said,  plucking  confidentially  at  his 
sleeve,  "  will  you  take  Miss  Winter  down  ?  " 

He  wondered  a  little  whether  this  was  the  result  of 
chance,  or  otherwise.  When  they  were  on  the  stairs  he 
found  that  they  had  not  spoken,  amidst  the  babel  of 
expectant  tongues. 

"  The  admiral,"  he  said,  promptly  repairing  the  error, 
"  told  me  to  take  you  down." 

She  laughed,  catching  his  meaning  at  once. 

"You  have  my  sympathy,"  she  said.  "  How  do  you 
propose  doing  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  he  replied,  with  mock  helplessness,  "  I 
cannot  do  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  can  !  I  have  been  taken  down  heaps  of 
times  by  men  of  your  stamp ;  you  are  just  the  man  to  do 
it." 

"What  is  my  stamp  ?"  he  inquired,  as  they  seated 
themselves. 


1 82  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

She  was  half  turned  towards  him,  drawing  in  the  rich 
folds  of  her  skirt,  and  she  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  little 
smile  qualified  by  raised  eyebrows. 

"  The  muscularly  restless,"  she  answered. 

"  And  are  muscularity  and  restlessness  qualifications  by 
which  one  may  expect  to  compete  successfully  against.  .  ." 
"  Against  what  ? "  she  inquired,  saucily,  for  she 
scented  a  compliment. 

"  Against  you." 

"  Yes  ;  men  like  you  who  travel  and  try  their  constitu- 
tions, explore  and  ill-treat  natives,  sail  where  others  have 
never  sailed,  climb  where  others  have  not  been  able  to 
climb,  are  always  at  the  top  of  a  pinnacle.  You  look 
down  upon  womankind  as  an  ornament  to  be  admired  by 
softer  men,  or  as  a  useful  adjunct  to  old  age.  You  talk  to 
them  with  bowed  head,  and  mouth  your  carefully-selected 
two-syllable  words  as  if  talking  to  a  baby  or  a  foreigner. 
Some  of  you  look  upon  us  as  pretty  fools,  to  be  looked  at 
and  admired  in  a  patronizing  way,  while  others  are  con- 
descending enough  to  talk  to  us,  as  if  we  really  under- 
stood the  rudiments  of  a  few  matters  in  which  they  take 
interest." 

All  this  was  covered  by  the  garrulous  chatter  of  sundry 
old  gentlemen  and  ladies,  who  while  enjoying  immensely 
their  soup  found  time  to  talk  all  at  once. 

Tyars  glanced  towards  the  foot  of  the  table,  and  in  a 
moment  his  eyes  returned  to  the  same  spot  again.  With 
him  a  keen  observation  of  the  human  face  had  become 
second  nature.  All  who  know  men  and  women  well 
know  the  language  of  the  human  face,  and  without  this 
knowledge  there  has  not  been  a  true  commander  yet. 
The  look  that  he  had  surprised  in  Helen's  eyes  was  full 
of  significance.  He  had  caught  her  watching  himself, 
and  there  was  in  the  drawn  1  ines  about  her  lips  the  signal 


A  Dinner- Party.  183 

of  a  distress  which  was  assuredly  something  more  than 
the  anxiety  of  a  young  hostess  at  the  foot  of  a  well-filled 
table.  It  was  all  noted  and  recorded  in  the  space  of  a 
second,  and  he  turned  to  his  companion. 

For  a  moment  he  meditated  before  answering  her.  He 
was  not  smiling  now,  but  there  was  a  look  almost  amount- 
ing to  one  of  relief  upon  his  face.  Here,  at  all  events, 
was  a  foe  worthy  of  his  steel,  a  spirit  equal  to  his  own. 
This  was  a  fair  fight,  and  no  favor.  Miss  Winter  knew 
of  his  projects,  guessed  that  he  had  entrapped,  or  at  least 
over-persuaded,  Oswin  Grace  to  share  the  perils ;  and 
she  was  not  reproachful.  She  was  defiant,  and  defiance, 
although  a  spirited  policy  in  its  way,  was  an  utterly  mis- 
taken one  to  pursue  against  a  man  like  Claud  Tyars. 
There  was  no  opposition  he  loved  meeting  and  quelling 
so  much  as  open  defiance. 

"  Supposing,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  one  of  those  men 
(which  I  do  not  admit),  I  am  not  ready  to  allow  the  ap- 
plicability of  any  one  of  your  charges.  If  I  appear  to 
look  down  from  a  pinnacle,  it  is  an  optical  delusion.  1 
am  in  reality  looking  up.  I  have  an  immense  respect  for 
the  female  intellect ;  there  are  recesses  in  it  to  which  I 
cannot  come  near  penetrating  Any  schoolgirl  can  beat 
me  in  the  game  of  repartee.  If  I  bow  my  head  and  mouth 
my  words,  it  is  owing  to  shyness.  As  you  have  no 
doubt  discovered  long  ago,  Miss  Winter,  I  am  not  much 
accustomed  to  ladies'  society." 

She  laughed  merrily.  Then  suddenly  she  became 
grave,  and,  turning,  she  looked  at  him  with  considerable 
keenness. 

"  Do  you  really  expect  me,"  she  asked,  with  genuine 
surprise,  "to  believe  that?  No,  Mr.  Tyars,  assuredly 
you  have  no  respect  for  the  female  intellect.  Do  you 
not  know  that  knowledge  is  considerably  more  difficult  to 


184  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

conceal  than  ignorance  ?  The  very  first  time  I  saw  you, 
while  you  walked  across  the  drawing-room  up-stairs,  and 
while  I  was  trying  to  recollect  where  I  had  met  with  you 
before,  I  knew  at  once  that  you  were  a  man  of  the  world, 
and  a  man  who  had  at  one  time  or  other  moved  in  society 
more  than  you  care  to  admit  now.  Men  are  different 
from  women  in  that  respect.  We  like  to  boast  of  having 
been  gay  in  our  youth,  while  you  seem  ashamed  of  it.  I 
do  not  think  you  are  shy.  You  are  an  old  hand  (if  you 
will  excuse  my  dock  language),  almost  as  old  a  hand  as 
myself." 

He  caught  the  reference  to  their  last  meeting,  and  con- 
cluded that  there  was  a  motive  in  it. 

"  I  am  more  accustomed  to  the  society  of  such  persons 
as  Peters/'  he  said,  coolly. 

She  was  helping  herself  sparingly  from  a  silver  dish, 
and  appeared  to  be  fully  absorbed  in  her  occupation. 
Without  looking  towards  her  companion  she  turned  her 
attention  to  her  plate. 

"  So,"  she  said,  "  that  is  the  ship  ?  " 

"  Yes— that  is  the  ship." 

"  I  have  known  old  Peters,"  she  continued,  conversa- 
tionally, "for  a  long  time.  He  and  I  are  quite  friendly, 
although  his  supply  of  small  talk  is  limited." 

"  Ay,"  observed  Tyars,  reproducing  the  tone  and 
accent  of  the  Scotch  ship-carpenter  to  perfection. 

"  I  have  always  admired  his  discretion,"  said  the  lady, 
ignoring  Tyars'  evident  desire  to  find  a  more  general  and 
less  personal  topic.  "  He  is  a  very  deep  well,  so  deep 
that  there  is  not  even  the  faintest  glimmer  at  the  bottom. 
I  am  an  intensely  inquisitive  person,  Mr.  Tyars,  and  I 
have  given  some  study  to  the  art  of  asking  questions. 
Peters  is  one  of  the  few  from  whom  I  find  difficulty  in 
extracting  information." 


A  Dinner-Party.  185 

"  He  is  Scotch." 

"  Yes — but — is  he  dense  ?  " 

"  No,"  was  the  grudging  answer. 

"  I  thought  not.  I  was  not  quite  sure,  however.  I 
noticed  that  he  rarely  made  a  mistake.  Of  course  I 
knew  that  there  was  a  mystery  about  the  vessel.  Some 
of  the  ship-keepers  were  interested  in  her,  and  asked  me 
questions.  I  cannot  say,  however,  that  my  curiosity  was 
very  much  aroused." 

"  It  is  a  habit  with  him,"  explained  Tyars.  "  I  put 
him  in  that  position  partly  on  account  of  his  discretion. 
I  wished  to  avoid  being  pestered  by  would-be  heroes  of 
tender  years.  And  I  have  always  found  that  discreet 
people  are  the  best  workers.  They  give  less  time  to  the 
affairs  of  their  neighbors. 

Miss  Winter  was  too  keen  an  observer  to  take  this  as 
a  personal  allusion.  It  was  too  clumsy  for  such  a  man 
as  Tyars. 

"  Perhaps  they  do,"  she  said.  "  What  I  like  about 
Peters  is  his  rugged,  dirty  old  face.  It  is  worth  while  to 
simulate  curiosity  in  order  to  watch  his  expression.  His 
features  are  like  stone — the  lines  are  so  hard  and  deep. 
He  is  the  incarnation  of  caution." 

"  Caution,"  opined  Tyars,  vaguely,  "wearies  me.  I 
have  no  patience  with  it." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  dancing  eyes.  He 
raised  his  eyebrows  in  amusement. 

"  Have  I  made  a  joke  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"Well — no,"  she  replied,  returning  to  her  plate,  "I 
do  not  think  you  have.  I  thought  you  were  cautious, 
but  you  are  not — you  are  merely  alert — the  most  alert 
man  I  have  ever  met.  I  have  caught  Oswin,  and 
Peters,  and  Mr.  Easton  even ;  but  I  have  never  caught 
you." 


1 86  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  he  said,  innocently,  "  that  you  were 
on  the  lookout  for  a  catch." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  meaningly,  "  indeed.     Did  you  not  ?  " 

"  Why  should  you  be  ?  "  he  asked,  and  at  the  same 
time  he  looked  gravely  into  her  face.  If  this  was  acting 
he  admitted  to  himself  that  it  was  a  splendid  perform- 
ance. For  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  was  fully  con- 
vinced that  this  cheery  little  woman  loved  his  first  lieu- 
tenant, Oswin  Grace. 

His  glance  was  returned  by  one  full  of  light-hearted  de- 
fiance— the  impenetrable  glance  of  a  beautiful  woman  of 
the  world,  fully  capable  of  guarding  her  one  great  secret, 
the  history  of  her  own  heart. 

"  Curiosity,"  she  returned.     "  Mere  curiosity  !  " 

It  was  just  this  curiosity  that  he  feared,  and  he  was  not 
the  man  to  be  caught  off  his  guard. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked.  "  What  did  you  want  to 
know  ?  " 

"  I  thought,"  she  said,  calmly,  "  that  you  were  leading 
a  friend  of  mine  astray." 

"  Oswin  Grace  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  So  I  was,"  he  said. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  An  opportunity  presented 
itself  for  her  to  turn  to  the  gentleman  on  her  right  hand, 
and  she  availed  herself  of  it,  entering  at  once  into  a  lively 
conversation. 

Some  one  else  addressed  Tyars,  and  he  had  no  further 
occasion  to  beware  of  Miss  Winter's  curiosity  during 
dinner. 

He  was  too  experienced,  too  "old  a  hand,"  as  Miss 
Winter  had  tersely  put  it,  to  give  way  to  preoccupation. 
He  knew  that  he  had  a  duty  to  fulfil  towards  Helen 
Grace,  his  hostess.  He  had  been  invited  in  order  that  he 


A  Dinner-Party.  187 

might  talk  and  make  others  talk ;  that  he  might  wear  a 
black  coat,  and  separate  two  lighter  toilets,  and  he  pro- 
ceeded to  carry  out  his  duty.  To  some  extent  Matthew 
Mark  Easton  and  he  were  the  features  of  the  evening. 
They  formed  the  novelty  which  is  such  an  important 
factor  to  the  human  sense  of  enjoyment.  For  novelty  is 
the  sought  of  all  seekers,  whether  it  be  in  society,  in  art, 
or  in  literature.  We  write,  and  some  one  reads.  Per- 
haps the  reader  casts  aside  the  work  of  our  brain,  our  best 
and  earnest  work — perhaps  he  reads  and  tells  others  of 
what  he  has  read.  A  passing,  hollow  reputation  is  the 
result,  and  we  fly  to  ink  and  paper  again  ;  but  even  while 
we  write  we  know  that  all  is  evanescent,  that  it  is  only 
for  a  time.  It  is  only  the  novelty  that  attracts.  When 
our  brain  is  laid  bare,  when  a  thought  is  perchance  re- 
peated, then  we  are  voted  effete — played  out — gone  by. 

And  so  these  two  men  bore  the  heat  and  burden  of  the 
entertainment.  By  the  time  that  the  soup  had  left  the 
room  Helen  knew  that  she  had  scored  a  success,  and  this 
knowledge  gave  her  confidence.  She  played  her  part  as 
she  had  never  played  it  before,  and  her  soft-hearted  old 
father  exchanged  more  than  one  moist-eyed  but  knowing 
glance  with  an  ancient  comrade,  after  a  comprehensive 
little  nod,  towards  the  foot  of  the  table. 

There  was  only  one  little  signal  of  discomfort  displayed 
at  times,  and  this  was  so  small  that  it  probably  passed  al- 
most unnoticed.  It  was,  however,  observed  by  the  very 
person  from  whom  it  should  have  been  concealed. 
Claud  Tyars,  while  laughing  and  making  others  laugh, 
while  drawing  out  the  dry  wit  of  his  friend  Easton,  and 
while  making  himself  universally  agreeable  in  a  downright 
way,  never  failed  to  catch  the  troubled  glances  directed 
by  Helen  Grace  towards  Miss  Winter  and  himself.  It  is 
probable  that  the  girl  was  unconscious  of  these  glances, 


1 88  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

and  it  would  appear  that  Miss  Winter  failed  to  notice 
them,  although  the  sudden  cessation  of  interest  in  the  con- 
versation of  Claud  Tyars  followed  closely  upon  a  glance 
from  Helen's  eyes. 

A  few  words  murmured  under  her  breath  as  she  fol- 
lowed the  ladies  up-stairs  may  have  had  something  to  do 
with  this  matter. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  "whether  it  is  on  her  own 
account,  or  on  Oswin's  that  she  is  jealous." 

And  it  is  worth  noting  that  Claud  Tyars  was  not  al- 
lowed an  opportunity  during  the  evening  of  exchanging 
another  tete-a-Ute  word  with  Miss  Winter. 

When  the  ladies  left  the  room  there  was  a  pause. 
Four  or  five  pairs  of  keen  old  eyes  were  directed  from 
beneath  white  brows  towards  Tyars,  Easton,  and  Oswin, 
who  had  either  instinctively  or  accidentally  drawn  to- 
gether. 

Tyars  knew  well  enough  that  he  was  regarded  with 
considerable  ill-favor  among  these  old  mariners  ;  but  the 
knowledge  exercised  no  disturbing  influence  upon  his 
equanimity.  It  was  the  ill-favor  of  the  setting  luminary 
towards  that  which  was  rising — the  malevolent  twinkle 
of  the  sinking  star  towards  the  east.  No  old  sailor  will 
admit  that  there  are  navigators  afloat  to-day.  An  old 
novelist  is  quite  convinced  that  printers  have  to  deal  with 
naught  but  trash  in  modern  times. 

The  old  sailors  waited  for  some  time,  expecting  Tyars 
to  begin  his  defense,  but  to  their  surprise  and  disappoint- 
ment the  subject  of  Arctic  exploration  was  completely 
ignored.  In  this  neglect  Admiral  Grace  assisted  the  three 
younger  men,  for  he  knew  of  the  project,  and  quite  ap- 
proved of  Oswin's  action.  To  be  among  the  few,  to 
know  something  more  than  one's  neighbors,  is  very 
pleasant,  and  the  admiral  fully  relished  his  position. 


Easton  Watches.  189 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

EASTON  WATCHES. 

THERE  is  no  opposition  so  difficult  to  cope  with  as  that 
which  refuses  to  argue.  If  a  man  be  full  of  wordy  rea- 
sons to  explain  his  course  of  action,  it  may  be  presumed 
that  the  reasons  have  done  duty  before,  and  in  all  proba- 
bility to  convince  himself.  If  a  player  persistently  with- 
holds his  best  cards,  it  is  difficult  to  discover  whether 
one's  own  be  better. 

Claud  Tyars  was  one  of  those  men  with  whom  it  is 
impossible  to  engage  in  a  hearty  discussion.  He  admitted 
tacitly  and  calmly  that  every  one  had  a  right  to  his  opinion, 
and  there  the  matter  ended.  That  this  opinion  in  no  wise 
coincided  with  his  own  affected  him  but  slightly,  and  he 
was  moved  by  no  desire  to  bring  about  a  change. 

I  am  not  of  course  going  to  be  so  bold  as  to  assert  that 
he  never  changed  his  opinion — such  an  assertion  would 
stamp  him  at  once  as  an  impossible  being,  no  more  human 
than  the  hero  of  a  lady's  novel — but  if  he  did  he  managed 
the  alteration  quietly  and  circumspectly,  as  it  is  always 
best  to  do.  If  life  is  a  kaleidoscope,  as  has  been  sug- 
gested by  some  one  or  other,  it  is  a  very  large  one,  and  in 
the  changing  colors  we  vary  from  pink  to  gray  and  rosy 
red  to  white.  From  the  cradle  to  the  grave  we  change 
and  chop  about  like  a  yacht  in  a  dead  calm.  To  say  that 
Claud  Tyars  held  the  same  opinions  all  through  his  life 
would  be  a  mere  piece  of  folly,  because  it  would  lead  the 


190  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

patient  reader  to  the  erroneous  belief  that  he  was  a  crea- 
ture of  imagination,  and  not  flesh  and  blood  at  all. 

Now  Miss  Winter  was  a  singularly  discriminating  little 
woman.  Those  clever  gray  eyes  of  hers  saw  most  things, 
and  passed  on  the  observation  to  a  quick  brain  to  be  pieced 
together  and  reduced,  by  a  process  of  which  the  male  in- 
tellect has  no  conception,  to  a  reasonable  deduction.  She 
knew  exactly  what  sort  of  man  this  was  ;  the  type  is  not 
uncommon.  We  all  have  run  against  it  and  trod  on  its 
toes,  or  felt  its  weight  on  ours,  in  many  a  British  draw- 
ing-room. Miss  Winter  had  encountered  it  also,  and  al- 
though each  of  us  has  his  individuality,  we  belong  also  to 
a  class  or  type,  and  this  type  generally  asserts  itself  sooner 
or  later.  Miss  Winter  had  some  knowledge  of  this,  and 
she  was  inclined  to  take  Claud  Tyars  rather  as  a  type 
than  as  an  individual.  She  had  found  from  experience 
that  although  each  man  may  have  an  individual  way  of 
doing  things,  the  net  result  of  his  actions  is  very  much 
the  same  as  that  of  the  actions  of  other  men  of  his 
species. 

If  we  look  round  us  we  shall  find  that  this  lady  was  not 
so  very  far  wrong.  Take,  for  instance,  the  silent  gentle- 
man— the  man  whose  manners  are  good,  but  negative. 
Take  three  of  them.  Call  them,  by  way  of  being  truly 
original,  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson.  Look  them  up 
after  a  lapse  of  ten  years.  There  is  a  Mrs.  Brown,  a  Mrs. 
Jones,  and  a  Mrs.  Robinson.  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robin- 
son all  talk  a  little  more  than  they  did  in  their  youth.  A 
certain  grand  disregard  for  the  details  of  existence  has 
given  way  in  all  alike  to  a  domesticated  love  of  the  poker, 
and  a  grave  assumption  of  the  cellular  duties  of  butler.  B., 
J.,  and  R.  are  devoted  to  three  quiet  little  women  of  no 
great  beauty,  but  remarkable  for  their  amiability,  and 
each  for  her  devotion  to  B.,  J.,  and  R.  respectively ;  and 


Easton  Watches.  191 

this,  mind  you,  will  go  on.  Mrs.  B.  will  continue  to 
cherish  her  conviction  that  Brown  is  unrivaled  among 
men  ;  ditto  Mrs.  Jones  towards  J. ;  likewise  Madam  R.  as 
regards  Robinson. 

How  Brown  won  his  wife,  why  Jones  married  that  nice 
little  woman,  and  where  Robinson  picked  up  his  treasure, 
is  not  our  business.  Those  details  are  doubtless  individ- 
ual enough,  but  the  grand  typical  result  is  the  same. 

This  method  of  treating  men  broadly  is  of  course  by  no 
means  infallible,  but  in  the  long  run  it  will  be  found 
worthy  of  some  attention.  That  Miss  Winter  had  adopted 
it,  is  in  itself  a  recommendation,  for  these  clear-sighted 
and  beautiful  women,  who  move  through  society  to  its  in- 
finite advantage,  see  considerably  deeper  into  human 
nature  than  you  and  I,  mon  ami,  with  our  keen  eyes  and 
fine  male  intellects. 

She  read  Claud  Tyars  as  one  of  those  men  who  are  un- 
assailable to  other  men.  His  was  a  mind  incapable  of 
bowing  to  the  will  of  another  man,  but  to  the  will  of  a 
woman  she  knew  him,  or  thought  she  knew  him,  to  be 
pervious.  From  the  very  first  she  was  antagonistic  to 
these  Arctic  schemes.  She  looked  upon  all  such  deeds  as 
pleasant  pastimes  for  young  men  ;  just  as  the  study  of  art 
or  music  is  a  pleasant  pastime  for  young  women  until  such 
time  as  they  are  called  to  assume  the  burden  of  domestic 
life. 

When  a  girl  lays  aside  her  pencil  or  closes  her  music  to 
think  about  her  bride'smaids'  dresses,  the  pencil  and  the 
book  are  generally  deposed  forever.  The  same  rule 
applies  in  most  cases  to  a  young  man's  ice-ax  and  Ex- 
press rifle  ;  and  it  is  not  for  us  to  cavil.  We  are  told  by 
a  wiser  man  than  any  of  us  (were  he  a  pessimist  or  no) 
that  there  is  a  time  for  everything.  A  middle-aged  man 
is  all  the  better  for  having  been  a  climber,  or  a  rower,  or 


192  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

a  big-game  hunter  in  his  youth.  Although  the  pencil  be 
laid  aside,  and  the  music-book  be  closed,  art  and  music 
are  not  forgotten. 

Miss  Winter,  therefore,  attached  no  permanent  impor- 
tance to  Claud  Tyars'  Arctic  aspirations,  but  she  recog- 
nized that  a  man  may  come  to  grief  as  readily  on  his  first 
expedition  as  in  his  later  ventures.  She  therefore  deter- 
mined that  this  scheme  should  not  be  carried  out  if  she 
could  manage  to  prevent  it. 

Whatever  her  feelings  towards  Oswin  Grace  may  have 
been,  she  had  another  motive,  namely,  that  Claud  Tyars 
and  Helen  Grace  were  on  the  verge  of  loving  each  other. 
The  minutiae  upon  which  this  suspicion  was  based  are  too 
numerous  and  too  complicated  to  give  any  hope  of  success- 
ful demonstration  here.  Women  have  more  time  to  piece 
these  small  details  than  we  have  who  are  busy  enough 
with  more  practical  matters,  and  let  it  be  confessed  at 
once,  they  have  greater  ability.  As  yet  it  was  a  mere 
suspicion,  and  Miss  Winter  could  not  even  decide  whether 
they  understood  each  other  or  not. 

In  view  of  her  own  position  regarding  Oswin,  a  younger 
woman  would  have  held  back,  but  Agnes  Winter  was 
made  of  different  metal.  She  had  no  reason  to  fear  the 
world's  comment,  and  was  quite  ready  to  brave  its 
opinion. 

She  rather  admired  Tyars  for  displaying  a  love  of 
adventure,  and  secretly  sympathized  with  his  aims  ;  but, 
being  an  eminently  practical  woman,  she  was  of  opinion 
that  it  would  be  much  more  sensible  for  him  to  stay  at 
home  and  marry  Helen.  The  truth  of  it  was  that  she 
had  not  hitherto  met  a  man  worthy,  in  her  estimation,  to 
be  loved  by  her  friend,  and  Claud  Tyars  had  appeared  on 
the  scene  at  the  right  moment.  At  that  moment,  to  be 
more  explicit,  when  a  girl  first  begins  to  find  out  that  home 


Easton  Watches.  193 

is  not  all  it  used  to  be  in  earlier  days,  that  a  father  and  a 
father's  love — excellent  possessions  as  they  are — have  no 
power  to  satisfy  a  certain  vague  desire  for  something 
more  exciting — more  exhilarating. 

The  quiet  passive  gentlemanliness  of  this  nineteenth- 
century  adventurer  pleased  Agnes  Winter's  refined  taste, 
and  the  knowledge  that  there  was  a  power  of  action  con- 
cealed behind  the  most  self-contained  of  exteriors,  inter- 
ested her  and  aroused  her  curiosity.  In  a  word,  she 
admired  Claud  Tyars,  and  admiration  is  a  concession  very 
rarely  drawn  from  a  woman  by  a  man  of  her  own  genera- 
tion. Love,  if  you  will,  friendship  or  toleration,  but 
admiration  rarely. 

When  the  gentlemen  entered  the  room  and  straggled 
across  the  broad  carpet  to  the  ladies  of  their  choice,  Miss 
Winter  wondered  whether  there  was  a  motive  in  Tyars' 
avoidance  of  Helen  Grace.  She  was  seated  at  the  little 
low  tea-table  near  the  fire,  dispensing  the  most  fragrant 
tea  and  coffee,  and  it  was  perhaps  only  natural  that  she 
should  attract  more  admirers  than  the  other  ladies. 

There  was,  however,  one  cavalier  who  knew  his  own 
mind,  and  this  was  Matthew  Mark  Easton.  He  crossed 
the  room  without  hesitation,  and  took  a  vacant  seat  beside 
Miss  Winter  with  an  air  of  decision  which  betrayed  a  pre- 
viously-conceived intention. 

"  Miss  Winter,"  he  said  in  his  gravely-humorous  way, 
"  I  manufactured  an  excellent  joke  during  dinner  about 
being  left  out  in  the  cold,  but  somehow  the  powder  has 
got  a  little  damp,  and  the  joke  won't  go  off.  I  had  mis- 
givings on  the  stairs  as  to  the  good  taste  of  making  a  joke 
about  a  lady's  name." 

"  I  doubt,"  she  answered,  "that  even  you  could  find 
an  entirely  new  variety.  At  school  I  was  called  Spring, 
Summer,  Autumn — anything  but  Winter." 


194  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

At  this  moment  Tyars  joined  them,  and  the  lady  looked 
up  with  a  smile  which  distinctly  invited  him  to  re- 
main. 

"  Those  schoolgirls,"  said  Easton,  in  his  formal  trans- 
atlantic gallantry,  "showed  considerable  sense  despite 
their  tender  years." 

Miss  Winter  received  the  compliment  with  an  approv- 
ing little  nod  which  spoke  of  criticism. 

"  Very  neat,"  she  said.  "  You  remind  me  of  Colonel 
Sames,  your  Minister,  who  is  a  finished  master  in  the  art 
of  flattery." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Easton.  "  Sames  is  a  great  diplo- 
matist. He  can  do  two  things  well.  He  can  flatter  vanity 
and  baffle  curiosity." 

As  he  spoke  the  last  words,  with  a  simplicity  which 
was  at  times  too  perfect  to  be  quite  natural,  he  turned 
towards  Claud  Tyars,  who  stood  listening,  with  a  vague 
smile  upon  his  face.  The  action  was  full  of  significance. 
It  seemed  to  say  that  here  was  another  man  who  could 
do  these  things.  The  quick-witted  little  lady  read  the 
significance  of  the  action,  and  looked  from  one  man  to  the 
other  speculatively.  She  seemed  to  be  occupied  for  some 
moments  in  seeking  the  points  of  affinity  upon  which  their 
friendship  could  possibly  have  been  built.  It  is  rather  an 
interesting  study,  but  there  is  a  great  danger  in  the  pur- 
suit of  it,  for  one  cannot  help  discovering  sooner  or  later 
how  very  few  real  friendships  there  are  in  the  world. 
Most  of  us  can  tell  our  friends  upon  the  fingers  of  one 
hand. 

At  last,  after  a  prolonged  scrutiny  of  Claud  Tyars,  pros- 
ecuted with  all  the  aplomb  she  was  pleased  to  consider  as 
attached  to  her  years,  she  said  to  Easton  in  mock  confi- 
dence— 

"  Can  he  do  both  ?  " 


Easton  Watches.  195 

"  I  do  not  know,"  was  the  prompt  answer.  "  He  has 
never  flattered  my  vanity,  but  he  baffles  my  curiosity 
every  time  1  contemplate  him." 

Tyars  laughed,  an  easy  and  provokingly  unconscious 
laugh.  He  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  reply  to  their 
raillery,  but  his  endurance  of  it  was  friendly  and  even 
encouraging. 

"I  should  have  thought  that  you  knew  him,"  sug- 
gested Miss  Winter. 

Tyars  turned  towards  Easton  in  a  semi-interested  way 
to  hear  the  answer,  but  he  was  evidently  more  occupied 
with  the  group  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  of  which 
Helen  formed  the  center. 

"  1  know  him,"  replied  the  American  in  a  queer  way, 
as  if  he  were  not  quite  sure  of  being  humorous,  "  as  he 
knows  the  sea,  from  the  surface  only.  A  little  penetra- 
tion leads  one  no  farther.  There  is  a  ruffled  surface,  or 
a  smooth  surface,  as  the  case  may  be  ;  then  comes  a  great 
calm  depth  ;  beyond  that  there  is  something — etwas,  quel- 
que  chose,  quakhe  cosa  ..." 

He  finished  up  with  a  little  shrug  of  his  narrow  shoul- 
ders, eminently  descriptive  of  ignorance  and  incapability 
of  surmise. 

Then  Claud  Tyars  did  rather  a  strange  thing — a  thing 
which  many  women  would  never  have  forgiven  in  an- 
other man.  He  wandered  away  from  them  towards  the 
group  of  which  Helen  formed  the  center.  He  left  his 
character  behind  him,  as  it  were,  for  dissection,  but  he 
left  it  indifferently,  unconcernedly,  as  a  forgotten  posses- 
sion of  no  value.  If  he  were  possessed  of  vanity,  he 
assuredly  must  have  been  flattered  by  this  open  interest 
displayed  by  Miss  Winter ;  but  there  was  no  misreading 
his  motive.  There  was  no  affectation  of  indifference,  no 
cynical  skepticism.  He  merely  wandered  away,  absorbed 


1 96  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

in  some  other  thought.  It  was  absurdly  obvious  that  he 
had  something  to  say  to  Helen  Grace,  and  he  went  off  to 
say  it.  When  this  man  had  something  to  do  or  something 
to  say,  he  had  a  singular  way  of  saying  or  doing  it,  with 
a  grand  disregard  for  convenience. 

"  Then,"  said  Miss  Winter,  disregarding  his  departure, 
"the  friendship  of  men  must  be  different  from  that  of 
women." 

"  It  is,"  answered  Easton  with  conviction.  "  You  are 
right  there.  The  friendship  of  men  is  like  some  of  the 
hard-wood  trees  we  find  out  West.  These  trees  are  there, 
standing  firm  and  strong,  but  they  never  grow  an  inch — 
and  they  never  die.  I  surmise  that  they  grew  some  time 
in  Noah's  nine  hundred  and  fifty  years,  and  they  have 
stood  there  since.  A  woman's  friendship  is  a  soft-wood 
tree,  that  grows  up  a  great  height,  and  gets  blown  down 
by  a  gale  of  wind." 

Miss  Winter  laughed. 

"  But,"  she  said  in  self-defense,  "  one  makes  a  great 
many  things  of  soft  wood." 

He  bowed,  with  a  deprecatory  wave  of  his  small  slim 
hand. 

"  Miss  Winter,"  he  said  gravely ./'  all  fruit  trees  are 
soft  wood." 

She  smiled  vaguely,  but  did  not  meet  his  glance,  which 
indeed  was  rather  a  difficult  thing  to  meet,  the  movements 
of  his  eyes  being  so  very  quick  and  uncertain.  She  was 
watching  the  endeavors  of  Claud  Tyars  to  oust  out  sun- 
dry gallant  old  sailors  and  get  Helen  to  himself  for  a  mo- 
ment. At  last  he  either  gave  up  the  attempt  as  hopeless, 
or  deemed  it  expedient  to  bide  his  time,  for  he  came  back 
towards  the  elder  lady  carrying  a  cup  of  coffee,  with  a 
certain  steadiness  rarely  found  in  the  hands  of  men  who 
have  not  been  at  sea. 


Easton  Watches.  197 

"  I  am  told,"  he  said,  "that  this  is  prepared  according 
to  your  taste." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Miss  Winter.  "  I  have  no 
doubt  that  it  is  delicious.  Helen  knows  my  peculiari- 
ties." 

"  Talking  of  baffled  curiosity,"  said  Tyars,  in  his  pecu- 
liar direct  way,  "  I  positively  dread  those  old  gentlemen  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room.  They  are  bubbling  over  with 
advice,  inquisitiveness,  and  personal  reminiscences." 

"Ah,"  said  Easton,  in  a  conciliatory  tone,  "you  must 
expect  that  sort  of  thing.  From  now  until  March  your 
life  will  be  a  burden  to  you.  You  will  have  to  interview 
people  from  morning  till  night ;  men  who  have  invented 
balloons ;  others  with  tin  models  of  impossible  ships ; 
provision  merchants,  fresh  fruit  canners,  old  sailors, 
young  sailors,  the  army,  the  navy,  and  the  church.  I  ex- 
pect," he  added  gravely,  "that  Miss  Winter  will  wait 
upon  you  with  a  selection  of  tracts." 

The  lady  mentioned  was  up  in  arms  at  once. 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  am  engaged  in  good  works,  Mr. 
Easton  ?  "  she  inquired,  innocently. 

His  quaint  little  face  puckered  up  with  amusement. 

"I  know  it,"  he  answered. 

"  How  ? "  with  a  quick  glance  of  reproach  towards 
Tyars. 

"  I  have  seen  you  in  the  St.  ^Catherine's  Dock." 

"  Indeed  ! — I  never  noticed  you." 

"  No,"  he  replied,  calmly,  "  people  do  not  notice  me 
much.  I  guess  I  am  insignificant." 

"  How  absurdly  small  the  world  is  !  "  reflected  the  lady 
aloud. 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  American,  "  it  is  certainly  a  little 
cramped." 

"  However,"   said  Miss  Winter,  after  a  pause,  "  I  do 


198  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

not  think  Mr.  Tyars  need  be  afraid  of  me  or  of  my  advice. 
I  know  very  little  about  tracts,  and  absolutely  nothing 
about  Arctic  affairs.  I  am  afraid,"  she  added,  deliberately, 
"  that  I  do  not  take  much  interest  in  either." 

After  this  gratuitous  stab  she  leant  back  and  stirred  her 
coffee  thoughtfully. 

Easton  made  no  answer  to  this.  He  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  in  the  spry,  apprehensive  way  which  had  earned 
him  his  sobriquet  at  school.  He  was  rather  at  sea  amidst 
the  smaller  politics  of  this  household,  for  as  yet  he  could 
only  guess  what  Miss  Winter's  position  in  it  might  be. 
He  did  not  know  upon  what  footing  his  friend  Claud  Tyars 
had  established  himself,  and  he  was  keenly  conscious  of  a 
subtle  antagonism  between  these  two  clever  people — the 
friend  of  the  daughter  and  the  friend  of  the  son. 

Nothing,  however,  was  lost  upon  him.  Nothing  es- 
caped his  little  eyes.  He  knew  that  Miss  Winter  would 
do  precisely  what  she  did  when  her  coffee  was  stirred. 
She  raised  her  eyes  slowly  and  deliberately  to  Tyars' 
face,  and  he,  looking  down  at  her  from  his  calm  height, 
met  the  penetrating  glance  with  an  intelligence  full  of 
speculation. 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  saw  all  this  and  was  puzzled. 
He  was  able  to  divine  that  there  was  some  understanding 
between  these  two,  but  at  the  nature  of  this  understand- 
ing he  could  not  make  the  merest  guess.  It  was  not 
antagonism,  nor  yet  was  it  Love.  These  are  the  two 
chief  understandings  that  arise  between  men  and  women. 
And  yet  there  was  a  gleam  of  something  very  like  a  warn- 
ing in  both  pairs  of  eyes. 

Each  seemed  to  be  saying  to  the  other — "  Be  careful.  I 
know  your  secret.  In  this  game  I  hold  a  better  card  than 
you ! " 


For  the  Last  Time.  199 


CHAPTER  XX. 

FOR  THE  LAST  TIME. 

IT  sometimes  suggests  itself  that  we  shall  in  the  here- 
after be  required  to  answer  for  words  as  well  as  deeds. 
The  ordeal  will  be  decidedly  unpleasant  for  the  majority 
of  us,  but  we  shall  hardly  be  able  to  cavil  at  injustice,  for  it 
is  only  right  that  those  who  suggest  evil  deeds  by  evil 
words  should  be  brought  to  task  for  the  result. 

In  the  majority  of  instances,  however,  our  words  are 
considerably  superior  to  our  deeds.  We  talk,  in  fact, 
much  more  prettily  than  we  act ;  and  still  more  do  we 
suggest  by  words  the  beauty  of  action  and  the  blessing  of 
virtue  in  others.  But  there  are  words  which  go  so  far 
and  achieve  such  distant  results  that  although  the  respon- 
sibility is  unquestionably  great  it  is  hard  to  say  whether 
evil  or  good  predominate  in  the  influence  exercised. 
There  are  some  lives  which  have  been  entirely  influenced 
by  a  word  or  a  few  words  strung  jingling  together.  These 
words  are  sometimes  spoken  by  father  or  mother,  some- 
times by  some  great  man,  some  cultivated  stringer  to- 
gether of  alliterations,  sometimes  they  are  spoken  from 
the  pulpit.  But  the  influence  of  a  sermon  frequently 
fades  away  and  leaves  the  text  behind  it.  The  words,  or 
sayings,  or  mottoes  that  have  influenced  human  lives 
have  usually  been  remarkable  for  terseness.  The  saying 
must  be  light,  the  sense  of  it  must  be  clear  and  sharp,  it 
must  strike  one  in  the  face,  and  there  must  be  biting 
claws  to  cling  to  the  memory. 


2oo  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

When  our  forefathers  looked  round  for  some  striking 
design  of  bird  or  beast  or  fish,  to  work  upon  their  silken 
pennant,  and  casually  asked  a  learned  monk  for  a  few 
words  in  Latin  or  French  to  write  beneath  it,  I  wonder  if 
they  foresaw  the  responsibility  they  were  assuming !  I 
wonder  if  they  dreamt  that  in  years  to  come,  when  their 
bones  were  moldering  beneath  the  moss-grown  stones 
of  a  little  country  churchyard  (for,  mark  you  !  those  fel- 
lows rarely  died  in  cities) — I  say,  I  wonder  if  the  dream 
ever  came  to  them  that  the  bearers  of  their  name  long 
after  would  look  up  to  the  motto  upon  the  church  wall 
and  try  to  shape  their  lives  according  to  it.  Those  words 
were  a  battle-cry  then,  and  they  are  a  battle-cry  now. 
Our  ancestors  have  much  to  do  with  our  lives,  much 
more  than  we  think.  A  word  or  a  name  reaches  into 
posterity.  "  Noblesse  oblige." 

And  in  our  modern  every-day  whirl  of  existence  a 
chance  word  let  fall  here  and  there  may  take  root  some- 
where, may  find  a  chink  in  some  mind,  and  slip  in  there 
nestling  and  concealing  itself,  but  making  very  sure  of  its 
stronghold. 

Claud  Tyars  was  not  an  impressionable  man  ;  indeed, 
he  was  a  singularly  hard  one.  His  self-sufficiency  was 
not  of  the  bragging  order,  nor  of  the  aggressive.  His 
habit  was  to  think  things  out  carefully,  and  then  to  stick 
to  his  decision.  Nothing  now  could  turn  him  from  his 
scheme  of  rounding  Cape  Chelyuskin  and  rescuing  the 
Siberian  prisoners  to  whom  his  word  was  pledged. 

He  knew  himself  to  be  a  determined  man.  The  throes 
of  indecision  were  quite  unknown  to  him.  But  a  few 
words  spoken  by  Miss  Winter  rather  worried  him  as  he 
turned  away  and  went  towards  Helen  Grace  to  procure 
himself  a  cup  of  coffee. 

He  wondered  why  she  had  told  him  so  deliberately  that 


For  the  Last  Time.  201 

Arctic  matters  were  totally  without  interest  to  her,  and 
why  her  eyes  had  informed  him  with  obvious  intention 
that  his  schemes  and  plans  were  a  bore. 

It  happened  that  after  all  he  was  permitted  to  have  a 
few  minutes  of  Helen's  undivided  attention.  Having  been 
provided  with  tea  or  coffee,  the  old  gentlemen  had  left 
her  to  seek  the  repose  demanded  by  their  aged  limbs  for 
purposes  of  digestion. 

Tyars  promptly  appropriated  the  only  vacant  seat  near 
at  hand. 

Since  the  conversation  which  he  had  had  with  Helen  in 
this  same  room  there  was  an  indefinite  difference  in  their 
relationship.  It  was  not  only  that  difference  which  comes 
with  an  increasing  familiarity,  although  it  savored  of  a 
greater  ease.  Tyars,  who  was  by  no  means  a  voluble 
man,  felt  that  he  had  to  some  extent  explained  himself ; 
that  he  had  spoken  a  few  at  least  of  the  difficult  words 
which  had  tied  his  tongue.  The  mystery  with  which  his 
movements  had  been  surrounded  was  not  of  his  own 
seeking  but  the  result  only  of  necessity. 

It  thus  came  about  that  the  two  young  people  did  not 
speak  at  once  as  partial  strangers  would  have  done,  but 
sat  in  silence  for  some  moments.  During  this  space  she 
handed  him  a  filled  cup  which  he  acknowledged  with  a 
little  nod  of  the  head,  and  the  movement  of  his  heavy 
mustache  betokened  the  framing  by  concealed  lips  of  a 
word  which  remained  inaudible. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said  at  length,  "that  I  am  not 
popular  this  evening." 

"  Do  you  covet  popularity  ?  "  she  asked,  brightly. 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  And  why  do  you  fear  that  you  are  not  popular  to- 
night ?  " 

"  There  are  several  old  gentlemen  dying  to  offer  me 


2O2  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

advice,  and  I  am  not  a  sufficiently  accomplished  humbug 
to  solicit  it,"  he  replied,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  and,"  he 
addded,  with  sudden  gravity,  "  Miss  Winter  has  been 
snubbing  me." 

Helen  looked  at  him  seriously.  His  placid  gray  eyes 
met  hers  with  a  little  smile  full  of  unconscious  purpose, 
the  eyes  of  a  man  who  goes  ahead. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  little  nod,  "  I  am  beginning  to 
find  that  the  North  Pole  is  further  off  than  I  thought  it 
was." 

He  had  got  so  accustomed  to  consider  his  first  expedition 
as  a  mere  preliminary  to  a  second  having  for  its  aim  the 
North  Pole,  that  his  conscience  passed  over  many  little 
deceptions  now  without  a  pause. 

Helen  seemed  to  attach  some  importance  to  Miss 
Winter's  caprice. 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  was  her  next  inquiry. 

"  She  went  out  of  her  way  to  inform  me  that  she  con- 
sidered me  a  bore  with  my  Arctic  expeditions." 

Helen  looked  puzzled,  and  gathered  no  hope  of  elucida- 
tion from  the  grave  face  before  her.  He  did  not  seem  to 
dream  of  offering  any  solution ;  indeed  the  position  he 
occupied  was  more  that  of  an  inquirer. 

"Did  Agnes,"  she  asked,  at  length,  "say  anything 
about  Oswin  ?  " 

"  No  !     Did  you  expect  that  she  would  ?  " 

"Scarely,"  she  replied;  "  but  .  .  .  but  I  should  have 
preferred  her  to  do  so." 

He  played  meditatively  with  the  small  silver  spoon 
lying  in  his  saucer,  and  said  nothing,  leaving  her  in 
ignorance  as  to  whether  he  detected  a  subtle  meaning 
in  her  remark  or  not. 

At  this  moment  they  were  interrupted  by  a  garrulous 
old  gentleman  who  had  been  sent  by  his  wife  to  procure 


For  the  Last  Time.  203 

her  a  second  cup  of  coffee  as  quietly  and  unobtrusively 
as  possible.  Tyars  continued  to  amuse  himself  with  the 
spoon  until  this  docile  husband  had  gone  off  jubilantly, 
then  he  looked  up  and  spoke  in  an  abrupt  way  which  was 
habitual  with  him.  He  seemed  almost  to  expect  other 
people  to  follow  out  the  same  sequence  of  thought  as 
himself. 

"  There  is  one  rule,  you  know,"  he  said,  "  to  which  I 
adhere  without  exception.  I  take  no  man  who  has  ties 
at  home,  no  man  who  is  married  or  engaged,  no  man  upon 
whose  labors  any  one  is  wholly  or  partially  dependent." 

By  way  of  reply  Helen  looked  across  the  room  towards 
her  brother,  and  Tyars  followed  the  direction  of  her  glance. 
Oswin  was  talking  interestedly  enough  with  the  plain 
daughter  of  an  ugly  admiral.  Miss  Winter  was  still 
engaged  in  lively  converse  with  Matthew  Mark  Easton. 
The  two  seemed  quite  content.  Each  ignored  the  pres- 
ence of  the  other,  completely  and  unaffectedly. 

Now  this  pastime  of  watching  from  afar  is  full  of  teach- 
ing, for  we  usually  learn  from  the  result  that  we  knew, 
after  all,  remarkably  little  of  the  proceedings.  We  are 
warned  against  false  prophets,  but  most  of  us  could  fill  a 
fair-sized  volume  with  false  prophecies  about  our  neighbors. 

It  would  seem  that  Claud  Tyars  was  not  disposed  to 
waste  much  time  in  speculation.  Perhaps  he  deemed 
that  Miss  Winter  and  Oswin  Grace  were  quite  capable 
of  taking  care  of  themselves — a  really  serviceable  plan  of 
action  which  I  would  recommend  to  old  and  young  for 
practical  every-day  application.  He  ceased  studying 
these  persons  from  afar,  and  turned  his  attention  to  a  more 
pleasing  object  which  had  the  obvious  advantage  of  prox- 
imity. 

There  are  some  people  who  need  not  seek  among  colors 
for  a  shade  to  suit  them,  for  black  does  them  greatest 


2O4  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

service.  Very  white  arms  and  a  graceful,  rounded  neck 
need  never  fear  black,  and  girls  possessing  the  slim 
strength  of  carriage  which  was  so  noticeable  in  Helen 
Grace  cannot  do  better  than  cultivate  somberness  of  garb. 
Alas  !  most  of  them  have,  however,  opportunity  enough 
of  finding  this  out  for  themselves. 

Tyars'  gaze,  slow  and  thoughtful — the  gaze  that  stores 
up  food  for  the  memory — continued  to  rest  upon  the  girl 
until  she  became  conscious  of  it. 

"  Oswin,"  he  then  said,  practically,  "  knows  this.  I 
made  the  rule  in  consultation  with  him.  It  is  a  desperately 
matter-of-fact  and  practical  rule.  No  sentiment — it  is 
not  in  our  line." 

She  laughed,  unconcernedly  enough. 

"  No.  I  have  never  known  Oswin  descend  so  low  as 
that." 

It  seems  rather  hard  to  realize  that  Claud  Tyars  had 
never  known  a  girl  so  intimately  as  he  now  knew  Helen 
Grace.  He  was  sisterless,  and  his  closest  friend,  Matthew 
Mark  Easton,  was  no  more  fortunate.  He  had  at  one 
time  "  moved  in  society,"  as  the  story-books  have  it,  but 
we  all  know  what  that  means — we  all  know  that  a  girl 
puts  on  her  evening  dress  and  her  evening  manner  at  the 
same  time.  Men  change  with  a  change  of  clothes,  but 
women  are  subject  to  a  still  greater  alteration.  The  man 
who  falls  in  love  and  does  all  his  wooing  in  the  ball-room, 
is  to  be  pitied.  He  sees  a  girl  at  her  best  for  the  moment, 
and  at  her  worst  for  a  lifetime.  Claud  Tyars  had  made 
many  ball-room  acquaintances,  and  some  had  been  con- 
tinued in  daylight,  but  he  had  never  hitherto  been  allowed 
an  insight  into  the  home  life  of  an  English  girl.  He  had 
never  up  to  now  shared  aught  else  than  pleasure  with  one, 
and  it  is  not  in  the  participation  of  pleasure  that  we  learn 
to  know  women  best,  and  at  their  best. 


For  the  Last  Time.  205 

The  most  fortunate  possessors  of  sisters  can  hardly  com- 
prehend the  position  of  a  man  like  Claud  Tyars,  for  a  sister 
leads  us  to  catch  glimpses  of  human  life  from  the  feminine 
point  of  view ;  and  above  all  she  has  her  friends.  Look 
around  you,  and  you  will  find  that  those  men  who  were 
brought  up  with  sister  or  sisters  have  made  the  best  choice 
in  wives.  No  man  is  any  the  worse  for  beginning  life  with 
the  friendship  of  a  woman.  Some  of  our  own  friends,  we 
must  admit,  have  gone  to  the  bad,  and  of  course  we  ut- 
terly disclaim  them  now,  the  recollection  of  our  former 
familiarity  has  quite  vanished.  We  remember  now  that 
we  were  never  intimate  with  them,  our  eyesight  is  often 
defective  when  we  meet  in  the  street,  and  we  are  given 
to  great  preoccupation  when  they  stare  deprecatingly. 
We  give  thanks  inwardly  that  we  are  not  as  these  publi- 
cans, and  think  comfortably  of  the  tithes  that  we  give, 
because  we  cannot  help  giving.  You  see  therefore  that 
we  are  exceedingly  worthy  beings,  and  consequently 
quite  beyond  reflection.  We  merely  mention  that  some 
persons  with  whom  in  our  callow  youth  we  were  slightly 
acquainted,  have  not  realized  their  mothers'  hopes, 
because  we  wish  to  seek  out  several  peculiarities  which 
may  have  influenced  their  downward  career.  These  men, 
then,  were  not  members  of  a  mixed  family.  They  had 
not  played  in  a  nursery  with  little  girls,  later  on  they  had 
never  been  boy  lovers  to  some  long-haired  fairy.  They 
had  not  even  been  dancing  men.  Few  dancing  men  goto 
the  bad.  They  may  be  muffs,  fops,  dandies,  snobs  ;  but 
let  us  be  just  to  them  nevertheless. 

Although  Claud  Tyars  had  been  a  social  success — al- 
though he  had  been  a  renowned  dancer,  and  never  the 
victim  of  those  little  ball-room  subterfuges  which  sting 
manly  vanity  very  deeply,  he  had  never  been  a  ladies' 
man.  He  was  actually  in  the  habit,  if  you  please,  of 


2o6  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

treating  ladies  as  if  they  thought  earnest  thoughts,  as  if 
they  possessed  reasoning  powers,  only  differing  from  those 
of  noble  man  so  much  as  different  environments  rendered 
imperative.  He  had  followed  out  this  treatment  so 
thoroughly  that  he  had  up  to  this  time  found  but  few 
members  of  the  fairer  sex  in  whom  he  could  take  the 
slightest  interest.  It  was  perhaps  hardly  a  satisfactory 
view  to  hold,  because  there  are  not  very  many  women 
who  can  bear  successfully  the  treatment  mentioned. 
Claud  Tyars  had  however  encountered  exceptions,  and  the 
most  noticeable  of  them  was  undoubtedly  the  girl  whom 
he  had  met  by  the  merest  accident  at  the  Brasenose  ball 
some  years  before.  A  girl  who,  in  spite  of  being  the  best 
dancer  in  the  room,  was  not  as  light  in  head  as  in  foot ; 
who  was  thoughtful  as  well  as  beautiful,  independent 
without  superiority,  and  perhaps  just  a  little  disdainful 
without  being  aware  of  it.  He  had  not  forgotten  the 
peculiar  sweeping  line  of  delicate  nose,  and  lips,  and  chin, 
which  in  some  way  suggested  an  old  portrait.  There  was 
something  Stuart-like  in  that  face,  with  its  softer  lines  in 
the  girl,  and  the  harder  for  the  brother ;  something  that 
recalled  the  days  when  men  were  content  to  die  for  a  face, 
and  loved  to  fight  for  no  other  reward  than  a  smile  from 
eyes  that  were  fascinatingly  sad. 

This  same  face  was  before  him  now,  and  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  he  had  looked  on  it  every  day  since  his  Cam- 
bridge years.  I  wonder  what  it  is,  that  strange  sense  of 
familiarity  with  certain  faces  and  certain  things  which 
comes  to  us  at  times,  and  then  fades  away  again  without 
explanation. 

Although  at  times  Claud  Tyars  could  be  lively  enough, 
his  presence  was  calculated  rather  to  lend  thoughtfulness 
than  hilarity  to  an  assembly.  The  Creator  has  endued 
all  large  things  with  a  solemnity  which  nothing  that  is 


For  the  Last  Time.  207 

small  can  ape.  If  the  young  hostess  had  reckoned  upon 
Tyars  as  a  guest  likely  to  tell  amusing  anecdotes  to  select 
groups  of  old  ladies,  or  even  to  keep  one  young  lady  in  a 
constant  ripple  of  laughter,  she  must  have  been  disap- 
pointed. He  was  distinctly  dull,  overshadowed  by  a  great 
preoccupation,  or  laboring  under  some  discomforting 
thought. 

He  thanked  her  for  the  coffee  in  a  grave  way,  refused 
a  second  cup,  and  then  sat  replying  in  monosyllables  to 
all  her  sparkling  sallies.  Occasionally  he  joined,  igno- 
rantly  with  a  smile  in  the  laughter  that  reached  them  from 
the  corner  of  the  room  where  several  guests  had  con- 
gregated around  Miss  Winter  and  Matthew  Mark  Easton  ; 
but  it  was  quite  plain  that  he  had  no  idea  of  the  joke,  and 
was  merely  echoing. 

At  last  there  was  a  move  on  the  part  of  the  largest  lady 
present  to  depart,  and  Claud  Tyars  rose  promptly. 

A  general  exodus  followed,  and  Easton  refused  gaily  for 
himself  and  Tyars,  Oswin's  invitation  to  stay  and  have 
a  cigar.  This  delayed  them  a  few  moments,  and  they 
were  thus  the  last  to  say  good-by. 

While  Easton  was  making  a  somewhat  prolonged  trans- 
atlantic speech  to  the  admiral  respecting  his  fine  hos- 
pitality, Tyars  found  himself  standing  beside  Helen  alone 
in  the  drawing-room,  for  Oswin  had  gone  to  seek  cigars. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Tyars,  "that  I  have  been  a  trifle 
duller  than  usual  this  evening.  I  am  sorry." 

She  laughed,  and  for  a  moment  did  not  know  what  to 
say.  She  flushed  slightly,  and  in  the  glowing  light  looked 
very  lovely,  as  she  said — 

"  I  hope  that  does  not  mean  that  you  have  been  bored." 
There  was  no  hint  of  coquetry  in  her  question,  and  he 
answered  it  gravely  enough. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  bored." 


2o8  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

When  the  front  door  had  been  closed  behind  them, 
Tyars  said  to  his  companion,  Matthew  Mark  Easton, 
without  removing  the  cigar  from  his  teeth — 

"  That  door  has  closed  behind  me  for  the  last  time." 

"  Why?  "  inquired  the  American. 

"  Because,"  was  the  cool  reply,  "  I  prefer  keeping  out 
of  number  one  hundred  and  five  Brook  Street." 


Miss  Winter  Moves.  209 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MISS  WINTER  MOVES. 

ON  the  evening  of  the  Admirals'  Club  dinner,  early  in 
December,  Helen  had  been  in  the  habit  of  dining  at  the 
Winters'.  Although  Agnes  Winter  was  now  alone,  she 
seemed  singularly  anxious  to  keep  up  this  custom,  and 
Helen  acceded  to  her  proposal  readily  enough.  Oswin 
was  easily  disposed  of.  A  sailor  returning  to  London, 
after  an  absence  of  some  years,  can  usually  employ  his 
evenings  satisfactorily. 

It  happened  that  Miss  Winter  was  absent  from  town 
during  the  three  days  preceding  the  anniversary,  and 
Helen  was  therefore  left  in  ignorance  as  to  the  nature  of 
the  entertainment  to  which  she  was  invited.  It  seemed 
probable  that  there  should  be  other  guests,  and  she  pro- 
vided for  this  contingency  in  the  selection  of  her  dress. 

As  she  drove  through  the  fog  and  gloom  of  December 
streets,  the  thought  came  to  her,  however,  that  had  there 
been  other  guests  her  brother  Oswin  would,  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  events,  have  been  invited.  This  thought  gen 
erated  others  ;  and  before  the  little  brougham  drew  up 
smoothly,  the  young  girl  was  verging  upon  a  conviction 
that  the  course  of  events  had  diverged  already  from  the 
commonplace.  She  was  not,  therefore,  surprised  to  see 
Miss  Winter  standing  at  the  head  of  the  brightly-lighted, 
softly-carpeted  stairs  to  greet  her.  Before  she  spoke 
Helen  had  guessed  that  they  were  to  pass  the  evening 


2io  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

alone  together,  and  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  she  did  her 
best  to  quell  an  indefinite  feeling  of  discomfort.  Now 
when  one  looks  forward  with  a  feeling  of  discomfort  to  the 
prospect  of  passing  an  evening  in  the  undisturbed  society 
of  one's  dearest  friend,  it  is  more  than  probable  that  there 
is  what  is  vaguely  called  something  wrong.  Two  very 
commonplace,  much  used,  every-day  words.  Something 
— and — wrong.  Yet  place  them  together,  and  you  will 
find  the  text  of  many  a  human  life.  You  will  find  the 
preface  to  most  human  sorrows. 

"  Anything  wrong,  old  fellow?  " 

"  Yes  ;  something  wrong." 

What  a  ludicrously  taciturn  nation  we  are,  after  all ! 
How  many  times  have  most  of  us  heard  the  above  words? 
How  many  times  have  we  asked  the  question,  or  answered 
it?  And  how  many  times  has  the  answer  made  its  mark 
upon  a  whole  life  ? 

Miss  Winter,  however,  was  smiling  and  cheery. 

"  How  are  you  dear  ?  "  she  said,  fingering  deftly  her 
friend's  wraps.  "  So  glad  you  have  come  !  I  was  almost 
afraid  the  fog  would  stop  you.  I  have  only  been  home 
half  an  hour  ;  just  time  to  change  my  dress  !  Oh  !  you 
have  got  on  your  black  tulle.  I  am  so  sorry  I  forgot  to 
tell  you  that  we  should  be  quite  alone.  It  is  too  cold  to 
get  up  dinner-parties.  We  will  have  a  cosy  evening. 
Ann,"  she  added,  to  the  staid  and  elderly  maid,  "  let  us 
have  dinner  at  once." 

During  the  tete-a-tete  meal  Miss  Winter  entertained 
her  friend  with  a  lively  description  of  the  visit  to  a  country 
house  which  had  just  terminated.  The  usual  sort  of 
thing — a  dance,  some  private  theatricals,  and  the  bewilder- 
ing society  of  one  young  man  who  had  written  a  book, 
and  of  another  who  was  going  to  write  one  some  day. 
She  was  not  really  cynical,  this  little  lady.  She  could 


Miss  Winter  Moves.  211 

afford  to  lay  aside  that  arm,  which  is  at  its  best  but  a 
temporary  weapon,  soon  losing  its  edge ;  but  this  eve- 
ning she  was  inclined  to  be  a  trifle  severe.  She  seemed  to 
be  laboring  under  a  necessity  of  talking  and  laughing  at 
any  price. 

The  literary  lions  were  fleeced  mercilessly,  the  amateur 
actors  were  criticised  as  if  they  had  been  attempting  to 
make  money  by  their  performance,  and  the  dancing  of 
the  local  swains  was  held  up  to  scathing  ridicule. 

"  You  can  imagine  how  hard  I  was  pressed,  my  dear," 
she  said,  as  they  went  up-stairs  together  after  dinner, 
"  when  I  tell  you  that  I  was  forced  to  tear  my  shoe — a 
thing  I  have  only  done  once  before,  at  Woolwich  Academy, 
in  the  heyday  of  my  early  youth." 

Helen  laughed,  where  laughter  seemed  appropriate,  and 
commiserated  freely. 

The  drawing-room  looked  intensely  cosy.  Miss  Winter 
had  been  an  early  upholder  of  lamps,  when  gas  first 
began  to  go  out  of  favor  in  London  drawing-rooms.  One 
huge  lamp — a  soft  yellow  circle  of  light,  supported  by  a 
long  ornamented  silver  pillar  with  Corinthian  flutings, 
the  whole  no  thicker  than  a  walking-stick,  stood  upon  the 
table  in  the  center  of  the  room.  Two  armchairs,  and 
two  only,  small  and  low,  were  drawn  forward  to  the  fire, 
and  between  them  a  small  table,  promising  coffee. 

In  response  to  a  little  gesture  of  the  hand  Helen  took 
possession  of  one  of  the  chairs.  Miss  Winter  took  up  an 
evening  newspaper,  of  which  the  careful  cutting  betrayed 
no  tampering  on  the  part  of  a  literary  cook,  and  slowly 
unfolded  it. 

"  I  want,"  she  said,  "  to  see  who  is  acting  in  that  new 
piece  at  the  Epic.  I  had  a  note  from  Oswin  to-day,  pro- 
posing to  make  up  a  party  for  next  Wednesday." 

"  Yes ;  he  spoke  to  me  about  it.      I  should  like  to  go." 


212  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

Miss  Winter  continued  to  unfold  the  paper  with  a  con- 
siderable bustle.  She  was  not  looking  at  it  but  at  Helen, 
who  seemed  interested  in  the  texture  of  an  absurd  little 
lace  handkerchief. 

"Who— is  going?" 

The  girl  raised  her  head  and  frowned  slightly,  as  if 
making  a  mental  effort. 

"  Let  me  see — papa,  Oswin,  you,  myself,  and — and — 
oh  yes  !  Mr.  Tyars." 

Miss  Winter  had  succeeded  at  last  in  finding  the  theatri- 
cal column,  and  studied  the  closely-printed  lines  for  some 
time  attentively.  There  was  a  little  clock  upon  the  man- 
telpiece, which  presently  gathered  itself  together  with 
an  officious  whirr,  and  struck  nine.  It  seemed  desirous 
of  drawing  attention  to  its  own  industry,  for  it  ticked 
more  loudly  and  aggressively  after  the  effort. 

Helen  sat  looking  at  it  as  if  wondering  that  it  should 
dare  to  break  the  somewhat  heavy  silence.  She  had  her 
back  turned  towards  the  lamp,  but  the  fire  had  fallen 
together  a  few  minutes  before,  and  there  was  a  single 
bright  flame  leaping  and  falling  spasmodically.  This 
lighted  up  her  face,  and  betrayed  the  presence  of  a  drawn, 
anxious  look  in  her  eyes.  She  made  a  little  shrinking 
movement  with  her  shoulders,  and  glanced  furtively  back 
towards  her  companion.  Miss  Winter  had  dropped  the 
newspaper  on  the  floor.  She  had  approached,  and  was 
standing  close  beside  the  girl. 

"Helen—!" 

It  was  almost  a  gasp.  The  girl  seemed  to  make  an 
effort,  but  she  succeeded  in  smiling. 

"Yes— dear." 

Miss  Winter  was  not  an  impulsive  woman.  There  was 
a  graceful  finish  and  sense  of  leisure  about  her  move- 
ments, but  before  Helen  could  move,  her  friend  was 


Miss  Winter  Moves.  213 

kneeling  on  the  white  fur  hearthrug  drawing  her  towards 
her,  forcing  her  to  face  the  light. 

"  Helen  !  let  me  see  your  face  !  " 

It  was  almost  a  command,  and  the  girl  obeyed,  slowly 
turning.  Her  eyes  were  dull,  as  if  with  physical  agony. 

Miss  Winter  relinquished  the  warm  soft  fingers.  She 
half  turned,  and  sat  with  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap, 
gazing  into  the  fire. 

"  When — "  she  asked,  "  when  was  it  ?  Long  ago  at 
Oxford,  or  only  just  lately  ?  " 

"I  suppose,"  Helen  answered,  quietly,  "that  it  was 
long  ago  at  Oxford  ;  but — but  I  think  I  did  not  know  it." 

This  daughter  of  a  sailor  race  was  not  given  to  tears, 
but  now  her  lashes  were  glistening  softly.  It  is  not  the 
bitterest  tear  that  falls. 

"My  poor,  poor  Helen!"  murmured  Miss  Winter, 
stroking  her  friend's  hand  gently. 

Helen  replied  by  a  sickening  little  laugh. 

"  It  is  a  little  awkward,  is  it  not  ?  "  she  said. 

A  wince  of  pain  passed  across  the  elder  woman's  face. 

"  And  he—"  she  asked,  at  length,  "  Claud  Tyars — he 
has  said  nothing  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

Miss  Winter's  eyes  fell  on  the  newspaper  lying  open  at 
her  feet.  Mechanically  she  read  the  heading  of  a  long 
article  on  the  "New  Arctic  Expedition."  Her  heart 
sank  within  her. 

"  But,  Helen,"  she  whispered,  "  do  you  think  he " 

"Hush,  dear,"  interrupted  the  girl.  "  Don't  ask  me 
that." 

Then  there  followed  a  long  silence,  while  these  two 
gracious  women  sat  hand  in  hand.  We  know,  we  who  have 
passed  through  the  mill,  that  sorrow  is  not  the  exclusive 
inheritance  of  the  poor.  Sorrow  is  a  little  thing.  It  is 


214  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

intangible — it  is  a  shadow.  And  it  creeps  through  fine- 
wrought  keyholes,  up  soft-carpeted  stairs,  through  silken 
curtains.  It  nestles  upon  the  finest,  whitest  pillows.  It 
sits  with  diamonds  upon  the  fairest  breasts. 

In  this  warmly-curtained  room  where  every  chair, 
every  curtain,  every  minutest  ornament  was  an  expres- 
sion of  taste  and  comfort,  where  two  fair  women  sat  clad 
in  silk  and  fine  linen,  sorrow  hovered  in  the  air.  For  are 
we  not  told  that  it  is  our  inheritance  ?  And  there  is  noth- 
ing so  sure  as  heredity.  I  know  a  woman  whose  father 
died  mad.  She  wriggles  and  twists  beneath  the  ban  of 
heredity.  She  tries  to  persuade  herself  that  she  is  not 
her  father's  daughter,  she  even  laughs  at  her  own  fears. 
She  accounts  glibly  for  her  own  mental  sensations,  she 
welcomes  with  thirsty  heart  all  instances  where  the  curse 
of  the  father  has  not  been  visited  upon  the  children.  But 
does  she  think  that  she  will  escape  ?  Most  assuredly 
not !  And  from  a  disinterested  point  of  view  it  seems 
probable  that  she  is  right.  Whatever  she  may  have 
lived  in  the  way  of  a  life,  her  death  will  be  that  of  her 
father's  daughter. 

That  is  but  one  instance.  She  is  an  exceptional  and  an 
unfortunate  heiress.  But  if  there  is  one  thing  certain  on 
earth,  it  is  that  we  all  have  an  inheritance.  We  cannot 
wriggle  out  of  it,  we  cannot  twist  it  aside.  We  read  of 
sorrow — we  hear  that  our  grandmothers  and  grandfathers 
dabbled  in  it,  and  the  fact  lends  to  them  a  pleasantly  ro- 
mantic interest.  But  do  we  realize  that  as  surely  as  they 
dabbled  shall  we  dabble  ?  Or  we  may  wade  knee-deep 
in  it.  We  may  sink  and  be  overwhelmed.  We  are  like 
soldiers  going  out  to  battle.  Private  Smith  may  fall — a 
bullet  may  find  its  billet  in  the  brain  of  Major  Jones ! 
But  Private  I — Major  Me — no,  the  idea  is  too  absurd  !  To 
lapse  once  more  into  egotism.  We  are  told  that  a  friend 


Miss  Winter  Moves.  215 

has  been  killed  by  the  fall  of  a  heavy  block  from  aloft. 
"  Poor  fellow,"  we  think,  "  but  what  a  fool  not  to  get 
out  of  the  way !  "  Now  we  should  have  got  out  of  the 
way  !  Voila  I  Are  we  not  like  that  ? 

Miss  Winter  was  the  first  to  speak.  This  had  not  taken 
her  by  surprise,  but  our  mind  very  often  takes  a  little 
time  to  digest  a  fact  in  which  there  was  no  surprise.  Of 
course  she  had  known  before,  but  there  was  a  difference 
now.  It  had  not  been  a  misfortune  before — and  now  it 
was  simply  the  greatest  misfortune  that  could  have  come. 
For  she  knew  Claud  Tyars  now,  and  she  knew  that  such 
a  man  was  far  beyond  her  influence — that  he  would  go  on 
this  expedition  if  he  tore  his  own  heart  in  two  in  so  doing. 
She  attributed  this  to  his  nature.  It  was  merely  the  in- 
dulgence of  a  passion,  the  satisfaction  of  a  singular  sense 
of  resolution  and  grim  determination.  She  was,  of  course, 
ignorant  of  the  other  motive,  of  the  real  object  of  Tyars' 
expedition.  That  was  cleared  up  afterwards — years 
afterwards  when  it  was  too  late  to  make  any  difference. 
Mark  this  last-named  detail — it  is  characteristic  of  most 
earthly  elucidations. 

"  And  you  want  to  go  on  Wednesday  ?  "  inquired  Miss 
Winter,  with  a  dawning  wonder  in  her  tone. 

'  Yes  ;  I  want  to  go — very  much,  Agnes." 

There  was  a  spell  of  silence,  after  which  Miss  Winter 
spoke  as  much  to  herself  as  to  her  companion. 

"  I  cannot  understand  that,"  she  said  ;  "  I  should  have 
thought  that  you  would  have  preferred  not  going." 

"So  should  I,"  replied  the  girl,  in  a  voice  which  crisped 
her  listener's  face  with  pain,  "of  any  one  else.  But 
when — it  is  oneself — one  thinks  quite  differently — I  find." 

Again  she  finished  her  sentence  with  a  nauseating  little 
laugh,  so  utterly  miserable  was  it. 

There  are  some  sorrows  which  are  sorrows  at  once. 


216  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

They  spring  into  existence  in  all  their  rude  development, 
and  there  is  no  possibility  of  mistaking  them.  Others 
develop  slowly — it  is  uncertain  whether  they  will  turn  out 
to  be  sorrows  or  not,  although  as  things  go  the  chances 
are  by  no  means  even.  And  somehow  these  two  women 
seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  this  love  which  had 
forced  its  way  into  Helen's  heart  was  a  thing  of  tears. 

"Is  it  not  much  better,"  urged  Miss  Winter,  practi- 
cally, "  to  avoid  seeing  him  ?  " 

Helen  shrugged  her  shoulders  before  replying. 

"  Why  ?  What  is  the  good  of  it  ?  It  is  not  as  if  there 
were  any  chance  of  my — I  mean — Agnes — you  know  that 
it  will  never  be  any  different  with  me." 

"  Still,"  said  the  woman  of  the  world,  "  I  should  avoid 
him.  Do  not  ask  him  to  the  house." 

"  You  need  not  fear  that.  He  will  never  come  to  Brook 
Street  again." 

Miss  Winter  looked  sharply  round. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  could  see  it.  He  made  it  obvious  enough  when  he 
said  good-by  to  papa  and  to  me — the  other  night." 

"  Then,  Helen,"  said  the  elder  woman  with  conviction, 
"  he  did  it  on  purpose,  and  if  he  did  it  on  purpose  .  .  ." 
She  stopped,  arrested  by  a  glance  from  the  girl's  soft, 
thoughtful  eyes. 

"  It  is  either  a  misfortune  or  a  crime,"  she  added, 
sadly. 

"  It  is  a  misfortune." 

Miss  Winter  was  not,  however,  the  sort  of  woman  to 
admit  that. 

"  No,"  she  said  ;  "  I  do  not  see  why." 

The  girl  turned  on  her  sharply. 

"  How  can  it  be  anything  else  ? "  in  a  hard,  heart- 
broken voice. 


Miss  Winter  Moves.  217 

"  It  might  be,"  persisted  Agnes  Winter  ;  "  it  would  be 
with  any  man  but  Claud  Tyars,  with  any  girl  but  you  ! 
As  it  is  .  .  ." 

"  As  it  is,"  echoed  Helen,  taking  advantage  of  a  pause, 
"  he  will  go,  and  if  he  comes  back  he  will  go  again  until — 
until  he  does  not  come  back.  And  I — I  suppose  I  shall 
muddle  on  with  Clothing  Clubs  and  Girls'  Friendly  Socie- 
ties, and  the  Church  Extension.  I  shall  wear  unbecoming 
bonnets  and  thick  boots  ;  shall  brush  my  hair  back  very 
tight,  and  polish  my  face  with  soap.  I  shall  develop  into 
an  intensely  energetic  and  talkative  middle-aged  female, 
whose  existence  or  non-existence  is  a  matter  of  perfect 
indifference  to  all  the  world  excepting  a  few  other  ener- 
getic and  talkative  middle-aged  females.  Ha  !  ha  !  .No, 
Agnes,  dear :  don't  look  so  solemn.  It  is  all  right.  I  shan't 
take  to  unbecoming  good  works.  It  will  all  come  right  in 
the  end.  These  things  always  do — at  least  we  say  they 
do,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing.  It  does  not  make 
any  difference,  so  the  brightest  side  must  be  kept  turned 
towards  the  outside  world.  I  wish  you  would  give  me 
some  tea.  It  has  been  standing  under  that  elegant  cosy 
ever  since  we  came  up.  I  wonder  why  no  one  has  in- 
vented a  cosy  yet  which  is  anything  but  absolutely  hid- 
eous." 

Miss  Winter  rose  from  her  humble  position  on  the 
hearthrug.  She  was  still  lithe  and  supple,  this  daughter 
of  the  great  city,  despite  the  gracious  roundness  of  her 
form.  She  obeyed  Helen's  request,  pouring  out  the  tea 
in  thoughtful  silence  ;  but  she  failed  to  smile  at  her 
friend's  gaiety.  Gaiety,  you  see,  is  not  always  a  thing 
to  smile  at.  Laughter  is  not  always  a  sign  of  joy. 

She  was  thinking  deeply.  This  lady  had  upon  most 
things  very  decided  opinions.  She  was,  as  already 
stated,  somewhat  in  the  habit  of  treating  individual  men 


2i8  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

as  representatives  of  a  type,  and  in  the  same  spirit  she 
met  the  difficulties  of  life.  She  maintained  that  there  was 
in  most  circumstances  a  wrong  thing  to  do  and  a  right. 
Moreover,  she  invariably  made  it  her  aim  to  set  about, 
practically  and  methodically,  finding  the  right. 

"  Helen,"  she  said,  "  will  you  tell  me  one  thing  ?" 

The  girl  moved  uneasily,  keeping  her  eyes  averted. 

"  I  think  not,"  she  answered  ;  "  you  can  ask  it,  but  I 
do  not  think  that  I  will  answer." 

"  Long  ago,"  murmured  the  low  voice  of  the  elder  wo- 
man, "  long  ago  at  Oxford  did  you  think — Helen,  forgive 
my  asking — did  you  think  that  he  loved  you  ?  " 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the  officious 
little  clock  upon  the  mantel-piece  and  the  heated  creak  of 
the  glowing  cinders.  Then  at  last  the  answer  came. 

"  No — no,  certainly  not.  But  he  was  different  from 
the  others — quite  different.  It  seems  ridiculous,  but  at 
the  time  I  thought  that  it  was  because  he  was  a  Cam- 
bridge man." 

"  Then  if  you  had  not  met  again  this  would  not  have 
happened  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Helen,  gravely;  "it  would  not.  I 
wonder  why  Oswin  should  have  saved  him,  of  all  men, 
in  the  middle  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  Now  I  must  go, 
Agnes.  It  is  ten  o'clock." 


A  Sermon.  219 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A    SERMON. 

ON  this  same  day  Oswin  Grace  dined  with  Claud 
Tyars  at  his  club.  It  was  in  this  manner  that  he  dis- 
posed of  his  unoccupied  evening. 

During  the  actual  meal,  served  in  a  tall,  hushed,  and 
rather  lonesome  room,  by  a  portentous  gentleman  in  red 
plush  breeches  and  pink  stockings,  there  was  not  much 
opportunity  for  private  conversation.  A  few  friends  of 
Tyars  came  at  intervals  and  stopped  to  exchange  some 
words  before  sitting  down  at  their  own  particular  table. 
There  was  about  all  these  gentlemen  a  similar  peculiarity, 
namely,  a  certain  burliness  of  chest  and  flatness  of  back. 
They  had  one  and  all  been  boating  men  in  their  time. 
They  did  not  boast  of  many  honors,  nor  possess  many 
degrees  among  them,  but  most  of  them  had  been  in  the 
"  Boat "  in  their  time,  and  some  of  them  were  "  strokes  " 
as  well  as  Claud  Tyars. 

After  dinner  the  two  men  lounged  up  the  broad  stair- 
case to  the  smoking-room.  There  were  two  vast  chairs 
near  a  secondary  little  fireplace  at  the  far  end  of  the  room, 
and  to  these  Tyars  led  the  way. 

There  is  nothing  like  a  cigar,  coupled  with  a  club  chair, 
to  conduce  to  pleasant  meditation.  Oswin  was  inclined 
to  be  merry  but  Tyars  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his 
preoccupation.  He  had  naturally  much  to  think  of,  and 
it  had  as  yet  not  been  noticed  among  his  colleagues  how 


22o  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

strictly  he  kept  matters  in  his  own  hands.  About  the 
ship  and  her  crew,  her  outfit  and  her  capabilities,  he  con- 
sulted his  subordinate  freely  enough,  but  as  Easton  had 
once  remarked,  the  executive  was  wholly  in  his  own  hands. 
He  saw  personally  to  every  detail,  made  all  purchases, 
gave  all  orders  ;  and  everything  was  done  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  and  businesslike  manner  which  showed  great  power 
of  organization. 

Although  the  two  men  were  by  now  quite  familiar 
friends,  there  were  certain  phases  in  Claud  Tyars'  char- 
acter which  were  as  unintelligible  to  Oswin  Grace  as  they 
had  been  months  before  on  board  the  Martial.  The  young 
lieutenant  still  confessed  freely  that  Claud  Tyars  was  a 
"  rum  fellow."  One  generally  finds  a  statement  of  this 
description  tantamount  to  an  admission  of  inferiority.  It 
is  just  possible  that  Tyars  had  chosen  this  young  sailor  to 
aid  him  in  his  tremendous  enterprise  on  account  of  that 
same  inferiority.  Men  who  are  born  to  command  and  love 
commanding  are  usually  found  in  association  with  such  as 
are  obviously  inferior  to  them.  In  some  cases  the  selec- 
tion is  instinctive,  in  others  it  is  deliberate ;  but  Claud 
Tyars  had  unconsciously  set  his  choice  upon  this  man, 
knowing  him  to  be  a  good  sailor,  a  bold  navigator,  and  an 
able  officer.  The  choice  had  been  made  very  quickly, 
with  that  strange  haste  which  almost  amounts  to  impetu- 
osity, and  which  usually  characterizes  the  action  of  prom- 
inent and  successful  men.  Tyars  was  not  conscious  of  his 
own  strength,  and  did  not  therefore  choose  Oswin  Grace 
because  he  was  of  weak  will  and  easily  led. 

The  elder  man  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  He 
removed  the  cigar  from  his  lips  and  watched  the  fire  burn 
while  he  spoke. 

"You  have  not,"  he  said  interrogatively,"  got  leave 
from  the  Admiralty  yet  ?  " 


A  Sermon.  221 

"  Not  yet,"  was  the  answer  returned  confidently. 
Grace  evidently  anticipated  no  difficulty. 

"  Then  don't  do  it." 

The  little  square-shouldered  man  sat  up,  but  Tyars  bore 
with  perfect  equanimity  the  glance  of  a  remarkably  direct 
pair  of  eyes. 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean,  Tyars  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  that  you  had  better  stick  to  brass- 
buttons  and  slave-catching  ? " 

For  once  there  was  a  lack  of  conviction  in  his  voice. 

"  No,  I  don't !  "  replied  the  other,  with  plenty  of  con- 
viction. He  was  leaning  back  again  in  the  deep  chair ; 
but  his  bronzed  face  wore  a  singular  gray  color,  while  his 
gaze  never  swerved  from  his  companion's  features. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  continued  in  a  quieter  voice  ;  "  my 
seamanship  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Tyars,  "that  is  a  matter  of  history.  It 
was  your  seamanship  that  brought  the  Martial  home. 
Every  one  recognizes  that." 

"  Then,"  said  Grace,  illogically,  "  let  me  go  as  A.  B." 

Tyars  laughed. 

"  I  do  not  think,"  he  said,  "that  you  ought  to  go  at  all. 
You  must  feel  it  yourself,  and  now  is  the  time  to  draw 
back — before  it  is  too  late." 

"  My  dear  man — I  don't  feel  it,  and  I  don't  want  to  draw 
back." 

Grace  was  smiling  now.  Things  were  not  so  serious  as 
they  had  at  first  appeared.  He  was  still  waiting  for 
Tyars'  reason.  He  knew  that  his  whilom  chief  was  not 
the  man  to  change  his  mind  without  strong  motives,  and 
already  he  pictured  himself  relegated  to  a  lower  position 
on  board  the  Arctic  vessel. 

"  Why,"  he  asked,  "  do  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  rid  of  you.     There  is  no  man 


222  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

afloat  whom  I  would  put  in  your  place.  But  I  must  be 
consistent.  I  have  refused  many  good  men  for  the  same 
reason.  You  have  too  many — home  ties." 

Grace  found  time  to  relight  his  cigar,  and  the  match 
illuminated  rather  a  flushed  face. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked  at  length,  in  a  voice 
rendered  unconscious  with  only  partial  success. 

It  was  an  awkward  question,  for  Tyars  had  been  as- 
sured by  this  man's  sister  that  there  existed  a  distinct 
understanding  between  him  and  Miss  Winter. 

He  was  not  an  adept  at  prevarication. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  awkwardly,  "  I  am  quite  alone  in 
the  world.  I  have  no  one  to  sit  at  home  and  worry  over 
my  absence  or  my  silence.  1  should  like  all  the  fellows 
who  go  with  me  to  be  in  the  same  circumstances." 

A  somewhat  prolonged  silence  followed — the  stately 
silence  of  a  club-room,  with  padded  doors  and  double  win- 
dows. The  two  men  smoked  meditatively.  I  wonder 
how  many  lives  have  been  made  or  marred  over  a 
cigar ! 

"I  suppose,"  said  Grace  at  length,  "that  Helen  has 
been  getting  at  you." 

Tyars  was  to  some  extent  prepared  for  this,  but  he 
moved  rather  uneasily  in  his  luxurious  chair. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "you  know  your  sister  better 
than  to  think  that.  She  is  not  that  sort  of  woman." 

Oswin  Grace  smiled.  He  was  rather  proud  of  his 
sister.  She  was,  he  opined,  the  sort  of  sister  for  a  sailor 
to  have.  Not  a  fretting,  high-strung  girl,  but  cool  and 
self-contained  and  strong — a  fair  sweet  sample  of  that 
most  enduring  of  womankind,  an  English  lady.  Tyars' 
words  conveyed  a  compliment,  manly  and  terse,  such  as  a 
gentleman  may  permit  himself  to  imply  in  the  presence  of 
a  brother. 


A  Sermon.  223 

"  Then,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "  if  Helen  does  not  mind 
it  is  no  one  else's  affair." 

"  How  do  you  know,"  asked  Tyars,  "  that  she  does 
not  mind  ? " 

"  You  have  just  said  so." 

"Never." 

"  Then  what  did  you  say,  or  mean  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  meant,"  replied  the  elder  man,  "that  I  never  asked 
her  whether  she  would  mind  or  not,  and  therefore  do  not 
know." 

"  You  merely  told  her  that  I  was  going." 

Tyars  nodded  his  head,  and  smoked  with  some  enthu- 
siasm. 

«  And—?  " 

"  And  she  did  not  say  in  what  way  it  would  affect  her  ; 
only  suppose  we  are  away  two  years — suppose  we  don't 
come  back  at  all.  Your  father  is  an  old  man — she  will  be 
alone  in  the  world.'* 

Oswin  Grace  stroked  his  neatly-cropped  beard  thought- 
fully. 

"  Helen,"  he  said  at  length,  "  will  marry." 

Like  most  big  men  Tyars  possessed  the  faculty  of  sit- 
ting very  still.  During  the  silence  that  followed  this  re- 
mark, he  might  have  been  hewn  of  solid  stone,  so  motion- 
less was  he  as  to  limbs,  features,  and  even  nerves.  At 
length  he  moistened  his  lips  and  turned  his  slow  gaze  to 
meet  that  of  his  companion,  who  was  sitting  forward  in 
his  chair  awaiting  the  effect  of  this  argument.  There  was 
a  waiter  arranging  the  newspapers  on  a  table  near  at  hand, 
and  before  replying  Tyars  ordered  coffee. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that  is  probable,  and  she  always  has 
her  friend — Miss  Winter." 

Oswin  Grace  relapsed  suddenly  into  the  chair. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  she  will  always  have  Agnes  Winter, 


224  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

and  if  she  married,  her  friendship  would  be  only  the  more 
useful." 

That  settled  it.  Claud  Tyars  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief, 
and  helped  himself  to  coffee. 

"  Shall  I,"  he  said,  "  put  sugar  in  yours  ?  " 

"  Yes,  please." 

"  Two  lumps  ?  " 

"  Two  small  ones,"  replied  Grace. 

They  discussed  this  question  just  as  gravely  as  the 
other. 

Then,  when  the  waiter  had  withdrawn,  Tyars  returned 
to  the  original  subject  of  the  conversation. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  if  you  feel  quite  free  from  the 
slightest  moral  obligation,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Oswin  Grace,  with  relieved 
cheeriness  ;  "  that  is  exactly  how  I  feel.  But,  old  fellow, 
I  wish  you  would  give  me  notice  when  you  feel  a  fit  like 
that  coming  on.  It  gave  me  a  beastly  fright.  Quite  a 
turn,  as  my  washerwoman  said,  when  she  saw  my  shirt- 
cuff  covered  with  red  paint." 

There  was  evidently  not  the  slightest  afterthought. 
Oswin  was  genuinely  enthusiastic,  and  showed  it — 
showed  it,  in  fact,  much  more  than  did  Claud  Tyars,  who 
was  essentially  a  son  of  this  nineteenth  century,  where 
enthusiasm  is  hardly  known.  Enthusiasm  about  evil 
things  is  not  desirable,  but  it  would  at  least  show  sincerity. 
We  cannot  even  go  to  the  dogs  with  enthusiasm  nowa- 
days. Tyars  may  have  been  honest  enough  in  his  intention 
to  give  his  subordinate  a  chance  of  withdrawing,  but  it  is 
probable  that  he  never  recognized  the  possibility  of  such 
an  action  on  the  part  of  Oswin  Grace.  A  man  capable 
of  doing  so  was  certainly  not  the  person  to  select  for  the 
work  that  lay  before  them. 

They  now  lapsed  into  mere  technicalities,  which  will 


A  Sermon.  225 

not  bear  setting  down  here.  .There  are  some  people  who 
disapprove  of  Arctic  expeditions,  but  there  are  also  per- 
sons who  withhold  their  approval  of  mountaineering  and 
of  football.  If  this  volume  fall  into  the  hands  of  any  such, 
I  bow  most  meekly.  Heavens  forbid  that  they  should  be 
persuaded  to  do  any  of  these  things  !  To  play  football, 
for  instance,  on  my  side ;  to  climb  a  snow-slope  in  front 
of  me  ;  to  have  anything  whatever  to  do  with  the  naviga- 
tion of  an  Arctic  vessel  with  myself  on  board — Heavens 
forbid  that  I  should  uphold  in  wordy  contest  the  taking  of 
a  part  in  any  of  these  ventures  !  But  it  may  be  pointed 
out  that  those  who  do  so  know  what  they  are  about.  The 
risks  and  the  chances  are  infinitely  better  known  to  them 
than  they  are  to  literary  folk  and  mere  newspaper  pes- 
terers.  If,  knowing  the  risk  so  well,  certain  persons 
choose  to  run  it — mon  Dieu !  whose  business  is  it  ? 

These  young  men  are  not  held  up  as  heroes  because 
they  were  pleased  to  risk  the  only  life  they  possessed  (or 
were  likely  to  possess)  on  a  hair-brained  scheme  for  re- 
lieving the  misery  of  the  most  pitiable  body  of  people  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  It  is  not  for  us  to  say  whether  they 
did  right  or  wrong. 

Of  course  their  design  was  a  deliberate  breach  of  the 
law ;  but  it  was  the  law  of  another  country,  and  we  all 
know  that  the  laws  of  a  foreign  country  are  a  mere  joke  ; 
a  series  of  quips  and  cranks  compiled  for  the  amusement 
of  travelers,  and  in  no  way  binding  upon  Englishmen. 
This,  at  all  events,  appears  to  be  the  view  generally  taken 
by  our  countrymen  abroad. 

"  There  is,  however,  a  higher  law  than  that  of  nations 
— the  Law  of  Humanity.  We  Britons  at  one  time  set  an 
example  in  the  application  of  this  law,  but  we  have  now 
other  things  to  attend  to.  The  whole  world  indeed  must 
have  its  hands  full,  or  else  its  vastest  nation  would  never 
15 


226  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

be  allowed  to  cast  an  indelible  stain  upon  this  century  and 
generation.  We  get  up  subscriptions  and  we  write  huge 
letters  to  the  newspapers  about  atrocities,  Bulgarian, 
Cretan*  and  other.  Well-intentioned  men  dispute  contin- 
uously and  fruitlessly  as  to  whether  certain  objects  seen 
on  the  banks  of  a  certain  river  were  the  remnants  of  a 
haystack  or  the  remains  of  a  crucified  man. 

Atrocities  seek  you  ?  They  are  not  far.  There  is  a 
very  comfortable  train  from  Charing  Cross  at  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning  which  will  land  you  at  the  railway- 
station  at  St.  Petersburg  in  about  fifty  hours.  For  sixty 
kopecks  you  can  drive  in  a  really  luxurious  droscky  straight 
down  the  Newski  Prospect  and  past  the  Admiralty.  There 
from  the  English  quay  you  can  look  on  one  of  the  great 
atrocities  of  the  day,  namely,  the  fortress  of  St.  Peter  and 
St.  Paul.  That  same  evening  at  half-past  eight  you  can 
take  a  train  on  to  Moscow,  and  after  a  short  drive  over 
cobble-stones  now  instead  of  wood,  as  in  the  Prospect, 
you  can  look  on  atrocity  number  two — the  House  of 
Preliminary  Detention.  And  these  are  but  introductions 
to  the  great  atrocity  of  Siberia. 

Even  in  bygone  days,  before  the  ages  were  illumined, 
political  prisoners  were  treated  with  some  sort  of  respect. 
They  were  never  herded  with  the  common  felon,  the  frat- 
ricide, the  murderer,  the  thief.  We  have  only  come  to 
that  in  these  later  days,  this  enlightened  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. But  this  is  no  place  to  set  down  so-called  sensa- 
tional details.  This  is  no  political  pamphlet,  and  the  writer 
is  no  Nihilist.  But  surely  there  are  some  Englishmen 
who  find  time  to  study  this  great  question  ;  some  who 
know  that  a  Nihilist  is  not  a  Terrorist,  nor  a  Socialist,  nor 
an  Atheist,  but  merely,  if  you  please,  a  politician — a  man 
who  loves  his  country  sufficiently  well  to  risk  all  for  her 
sake.  In  all  changes  there  is  a  time  when  crime  is  turned 


A  Sermon.  227 

to  heroism.  To-day  the  Nihilists  are  criminals,  some  day 
they  will  be  heroes.  To-day  Nihil  merely  represents  the 
fruit  that  they  gather  from  their  seed,  but  in  times  to  come 
one  cannot  help  hoping  that  there  will  be  a  mighty  har- 
vest. And  then  perhaps  the  gatherers — the  new  Russian 
nation  that  will  spring  up  and  flourish  from  the  ashes  of 
the  old  autocracy — will  remember  those  who  sowed  in 
tears  and  tribulation  ;  will  remember  those  nameless  thou- 
sands of  men  and  women  who  have  died  in  solitary  cell, 
in  dripping  darksome  mine,  in  prison-hospital,  and  on  the 
great  road  to  Siberia. 

In  England  the  whole  question  of  the  future  of  Russia  is 
as  little  studied  as  its  present  state  is  known.  Nihilism 
at  present  is  a  subject  to  write  novels  about — the  dramatic 
side  of  it  alone  is  brought  before  the  public ;  and  conse- 
quently the  cause  of  Progression,  ay,  the  cause  of  per- 
sonal freedom,  each  man's  birthright,  is  treated  as  a  huge 
fiction.  A  few  read  the  sparse  books  here  and  there 
written  by  Russians  who  are  in  deadly  earnest,  but  fewer 
still  take  it  as  it  is,  namely,  a  downright  practical  fact. 
It  is  a  great  fight,  and  though  the  picturesque  part  of  it 
only  is  presented  in  fiction,  just  as  the  picturesque  side  of 
Poland  was  a  few  years  ago  turned  into  fictional  capital, 
there  is  another — the  earnest  steady  pressing  forward  of 
an  ever-increasing  party  of  men  and  women  who  daily 
make  stupendous  sacrifices  for  the  cause  that  binds  them 
together. 

The  picturesqueness  requires  distance.  One  must  con- 
template the  drama  to  appreciate  its  force,  and  take  no 
part  in  it.  It  is  very  thrilling  and  very  picturesque  to 
conjure  up  in  the  mind's  eye  a  gloomy  cell,  with  glisten- 
ing walls  and  a  wooden  bed,  without  even  a  handful  of 
straw  ;  but  the  denizen  of  that  cell  fails  to  see  the  dra- 
matic force  of  it  all.  There  is  a  certain  excitement  in 


228  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

imagining  a  snow-covered  plain  traversed  by  one  dirty, 
deeply-rutted  road,  and  to  set  thereon  a  string  of  misera- 
ble beings,  dragging  one  leg  after  another — their  backs 
turned  towards  home  and  all  they  love,  their  horror- 
stricken  eyes  looking  on  hopeless  exile.  But  there  is  no 
excitement  in  standing  at  the  edge  of  that  road  and  watch- 
ing with  living  eyes  those  same  poor  human  beings  in  the 
flesh.  There  is  no  dramatic  thrill  in  standing  at  the  side 
of  a  miserable  pallet  infested  with  vermin,  reeking  with 
damp,  and  watching  the  last  throes  of  a  repulsive  heap  of 
dirt  and  rags  which  was  once  a  comely,  fair  young  girl. 
And  these  are  realities,  they  are  no  sensational  details. 
The  details  of  Siberian  prison  life  and  exile  life  are  not 
sensational — they  are  merely  beastly. 


Miss  Winter  Diverges.  229 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MISS  WINTER  DIVERGES. 

"  MY  DEAR  OSWIN, 

"If  you  want  to  carry  out  this  theater-party,  come 
and  see  me  about  it.  I  shall  be  at  home  all  the 
morning. 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"  AGNES  WINTER." 

The  young  sailor  read  this  letter  among  others  at  the 
breakfast- table.  His  father  and  sister  were  engaged  on 
their  own  affairs  ;  Helen  with  her  letters,  the  admiral 
among  his  newspapers.  Oswin  Grace  read  the  letter 
twice,  and  then  with  a  glance  to  see  that  he  was  unob- 
served by  his  sister,  he  slipped  it  into  his  pocket  together 
with  the  envelope  that  had  contained  it. 

"  Have  you,"  said  Helen,  immediately  afterwards,  "  a 
letter  from  Agnes  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  opening  a  second  missive  with  airy 
indifference.  "  She  wants  me  to  arrange  about  the 
theater.  I  shall  go  round  and  see  her  this  morning — will 
you  come  with  me  ?  " 

The  girl  raised  her  eyebrows  almost  imperceptibly. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  he  would  have  schemed 
unscrupulously  to  go  alone. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  answered,  quietly,  "that  I  cannot 
go  out  this  morning.  I  have  so  much  to  do  in  the  house." 


230  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"You  had  better  come." 

"  If  you  will  put  it  off  to  this  afternoon  I  should  like  to," 
she  replied. 

"  No  ;  I  am  engaged  this  afternoon." 

"Where?"  inquired  the  admiral  without  raising  his 
eyes  from  the  newspaper. 

"  At  the  docks — with  Tyars." 

There  was  nothing  more  said,  and  at  eleven  o'clock 
Oswin  went  out  alone.  The  fog  and  gloom  of  late  No- 
vember had  given  place  to  a  bright,  dry  cold,  and  this, 
without  any  great  fall  in  the  thermometer,  now  held  com- 
plete sway  over  mud  and  water. 

Miss  Winter's  elderly  maid-servant  evidently  expected 
Lieutenant  Grace,  for  she  opened  the  door  and  stood  back 
invitingly.  Then  when  he  was  in  the  hall  unbuttoning 
his  thick  pilot  coat,  she  informed  him  that  Miss  Agnes 
was  out,  but  was  to  return  in  a  few  moments.  He  was 
ushered  up  into  the  warm,  luxurious  drawing-room,  and 
after  the  door  had  been  closed,  stood  for  a  few  moments 
irresolute  in  the  middle  of  the  deep  carpet.  Presently  he 
began  to  wander  about  the  room,  taking  things  up  and 
setting  them  down  again.  He  inhaled  the  subtle  atmos- 
phere of  feminine  home  refinement  and  looked  curiously 
round  him.  There  were  a  hundred  little  personalities, 
little  inconsidered  feminine  trifles  that  are  only  found 
where  a  woman  is  quite  at  home.  The  very  arrangement 
of  the  room  proved  that  it  was  a  woman's  room,  that  a 
woman  lived  her  every-day  life  there,  and  set  her  inde- 
finable subtle  stamp  upon  everything.  There  was  a  silly 
little  lace  handkerchief,  utterly  useless  and  vain,  lying 
upon  a  table  beside  a  work-basket.  He  took  it  up,  ex- 
amined its  texture  critically,  and  then  instinctively  raised 
it  to  his  face.  He  threw  it  down  again  with  a  peculiar 
twisted  smile. 


Miss  Winter  Diverges.  231 

"  Wonder  what  scent  it  is,"  he  muttered.  "  I  have 
never  come  across  it — anywhere  else." 

He  went  towards  the  mantelpiece ;  upon  it  were  two 
portraits — old  photographs,  somewhat  faded.  One  of 
Helen,  the  other  of  himself.  He  examined  his  own  like- 
ness for  some  moments. 

"  Solemn  little  beggar,"  he  said,  for  the  photograph  was 
of  a  little  square-built  midshipman  with  a  long  oval  face. 
"Solemn  little  beggar;  wonder  what  his  end  will  be? 
Wonder  why  he  is  on  this  mantelpiece?  " 

Then  he  continued  his  mental  inventory,  stopping  finally 
on  the  hearthrug  with  his  back  turned  towards  the  fire, 
his  hands  thrust  into  the  side-pockets  of  his  short  blue 
serge  jacket. 

"  I  think,"  he  reflected  aloud,  "  that  I  was  rather  a  fool 
to  come  here.  Tyars  would  not  like  it." 

While  he  was  still  following  out  the  train  of  thought  sug- 
gested by  this  reflection  the  door  opened  and  Miss  Winter 
entered.  She  had  evidently  just  come  in,  for  she  was 
still  gloved  and  furred. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  gaily;  "you  have  come.  I  was 
afraid  that  your  exacting  commander  would  require  your 
services  all  the  morning." 

"  My  exacting  commander,"  he  answered,  as  he  took 
her  gloved  hand  in  his,  "  has  a  peculiar  way  of  doing 
everything  himself  and  leaving  his  subordinates  idle." 

She  was  standing  before  him  slowly  unbuttoning  her 
trim  little  sealskin  jacket.  Then  she  drew  off  her  gloves 
and  threw  them  down  on  a  chair  beside  her  jacket.  There 
was  about  her  movements  that  subtle  sense  of  feminine 
luxury  which  is  slightly  bewildering  to  men  unaccustomed 
to  English  home-life.  The  cold  bright  air  had  brought  a 
glow  of  color  to  her  rounded  cheeks  ;  she  might  easily  have 
been  a  lovely  girl  of  twenty-one.  But  there  was  a  fascina- 


232  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

tion  in  her  which  was  equal  to  that  of  youth,  if  not  supe- 
rior— the  fascination  of  perfect  self-possession,  of  perfect 
savoirfaire.  She  seemed  singularly  sure  of  herself,  quite 
certain  as  to  what  she  was  going  to  say  or  do  next.  She 
seemed  to  know  how  to  make  the  best  of  life,  how  to 
laugh  in  the  right  places,  and  work  and  play  ;  and  perhaps 
she  knew  how  to  love  if  she  set  her  mind  that  way. 

"  The  delicate  daughter,"  she  said,  cheerily,  "  of  the 
genial  milkman  has  been  suddenly  taken  worse.  I  knew 
that  meant  jelly,  so  I  took  it  round  at  once  with  last  week's 
Graphic,  and  got  it  over.  I  hope  I  have  not  kept  you 
waiting  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  thanks,"  he  replied. 

It  almost  seemed  that  he  was  not  quite  at  ease  with  his 
old  playmate — the  companion  of  his  childhood,  the  little 
sweetheart  of  his  "  Britannia  "  days.  If  this  was  so 
the  change  was  all  on  his  side,  for  she  persistently  treated 
him  with  that  sisterly  familiarity  which  has  led  so  many 
of  us  into  mistakes  that  might  be  ludicrous  if  they  only 
did  not  leave  such  a  nasty  sting  behind  them. 

She  approached  the  mirror  above  the  mantelpiece,  and 
in  continuance  of  her  sisterly  treatment,  proceeded  placidly 
to  draw  out  the  long  pins  from  her  hat,  while  he  watched 
the  deft  play  of  her  fingers. 

"  I  have  been  wandering  round  the  room,"  he  continued, 
resolutely  turning  away,  "  looking  for  old  friends." 

"  You  have  scarcely  been  in  this  room,"  she  said,  with- 
out looking  round,  "  since  you  came  back." 

"  No-o-o  !  I  found  a  little  thimble  in  the  top  of  your 
work-basket.  Do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  make 
indigestible  little  loaves  of  bread  and  cook  them  in  a  thimble 
over  the  gas  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  laughed,  "  it  is  the  same  thimble.  It  fits 
me  still." 


.     Miss  Winter  Diverges.  233 

She  held  up  for  his  edification  a  small  dimpled  hand  with 
clever  capable  little  fingers  bent  coquettishly  backwards. 
He  gave  a  short  laugh,  and  took  no  notice  of  the  tempting 
fingers.  Then,  having  removed  her  hat,  she  knelt  down 
in  front  of  the  fire  to  warm  herself. 

"What,"  she  said  suddenly,  "about  this  expedi- 
tion?" 

He  looked  back  at  her  over  his  shoulder,  for  he  had 
gone  towards  the  window,  and  there  was  a  sudden  gleam 
of  determination  in  his  eyes.  It  was  her  influence  that 
had  disturbed  Tyars'  resolution. 

"  What  expedition  ?  "  he  asked,  curtly,  on  his  guard. 

"  This  theater  expedition,"  she  replied,  sweetly. 

"  Oh,  well ;  I  suppose  it  will  be  carried  through.  We 
all  want  to  go." 

"  We — all  ?  "  she  said,  inquiringly. 

He  came  nearer  to  her,  standing  actually  on  the  hearth- 
rug beside  her  and  looking  down. 

"  Helen,"  he  explained,  "  and  Tyars,  and  myself  and 
Easton,  I  believe." 

She  gave  a  little  nod  at  the  mention  of  each  name, 
tallying  them  off  in  her  mind. 

"  And,"  he  continued,  "  I  suppose  you  are  not  strongly 
opposed  to  it  ?  " 

"I,"  she  laughed  lightly;  "of  course  I  want  to  go. 
You  know  that  I  am  always  ready  for  amusement,  prof- 
itless or  otherwise — profitless  preferred !  Why  do  you 
look  so  grave,  Oswin  ?  Please  don't — I  hate  solemnity. 
Do  you  know  you  have  got  horribly  grave  lately  ?  It 
is  ..." 

"  It  is  what,  Agnes  ?  " 

He  was  looking  down  at  her  with  his  keen,  close-set 
gray  eyes,  and  she  met  his  glance  for  a  moment  only. 

"Mr.  Tyars,"  she  answered,  clasping  her  fingers  to- 


234  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

gether  and  bending  them  backwards  as  if  to  restore  the 
circulation  after  her  cold  walk. 

"  There  is  something,"  said  Grace,  after  a  little  pause, 
during  which  Miss  Winter  had  continued  to  rub  a  re- 
markably rosy  little  pair  of  hands  together,  "  that  jars. 
Tyars  annoys  you  in  some  way." 

Miss  Winter  changed  color.  She  looked  very  girlish 
with  the  hot  blush  fading  slowly  from  her  cheeks.  She 
did  not  however  make  any  answer. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Grace.     "  His  energy  ?  " 

"  No-o,"  slowly,  with  a  faint  suggestion  of  coquetry. 

"  His  gravity  ?  " 

"No." 

"  His  independence  ?  " 

"  I  like  men  to  be  energetic,  grave,  and  independent. 
All  men  should  be  so." 

"  Then  what  is  it  ?  "  asked  Oswin. 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me,  Agnes?"  he  urged;  and  as  he 
spoke  he  walked  away  from  her  and  stood  looking  out  of 
the  window.  They  were  thus  at  opposite  sides  of  the 
room,  back  to  back.  She  glanced  over  her  shoulder, 
drew  in  a  deep  breath,  and  then  spoke  with  an  odd  little 
smile  which  was  almost  painful.  One  would  almost  have 
thought  that  she  was  going  to  tell  a  lie. 

"  His  Arctic  expedition,"  she  said,  deliberately.  "  If 
he  is  going  to  spend  his  life  in  that  sort  of  thing  I  would 
rather — not — cultivate — his  friendship." 

She  leant  forward,  warming  her  hands  feverishly, 
breathing  rapidly  and  unevenly.  She  felt  him  approach, 
for  his  footsteps  were  inaudible  on  the  thick  carpet,  and 
she  only  crouched  a  little  lower.  At  last,  after  a  horrid 
silence,  he  spoke,  and  his  voice  was  quite  different ;  it 
was  deeper  and  singularly  monotonous. 


Miss  Winter  Diverges.  235 

"  Why  should  you  not  wish  to  cultivate  his  friendship 
under  those  circumstances?  " 

"Because,"  she  answered,  lamely,  "I  should  hate  to 
have  a  friend  of  mine — a  real  friend — running  the  risk  of 
such  a  horrible  death." 

He  walked  away  to  the  window  again  and  stood  there 
with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  jacket-pockets — a  sturdy, 
square  little  man — a  plucky,  self-contained  Englishman, 
taking  his  punishment  without  a  word.  He  was,  as  has 
been  stated,  rather  ignorant  in  the  ways  of  women. 
Most  naval  men  are.  And  he  fell  into  the  trap  blindly. 
He  was  actually  foolish  enough  to  believe  that  Agnes 
Winter  loved  Claud  Tyars,  and  he  was  ignorant  enough 
to  believe  that  a  woman  ever  tells  one  man  of  her  love 
for  another.  It  seems  almost  incredible  that  he  should  do 
this.  It  is  only  men  who  make  such  mistakes  as  regards 
human  nature. 

As  a  man  of  honor  he  had  carefully  schooled  himself 
to  show  this  lady  by  every  action,  word,  and  gesture 
that  if  he  had  at  one  time  been  moved  to  regard  her  with 
other  than  the  eyes  of  a  brother,  that  time  was  passed. 
This  was  the  least  he  could  do  in  honor  towards  her,  in 
faith  towards  Claud  Tyars.  Whether  he  succeeded  or 
not  could  only  be  known  to  Agnes  Winter  herself.  But, 
to  judge  from  the  expression  of  his  face,  from  the  con- 
tracted pain  of  his  eyes  as  he  stood  looking  down  into  the 
quiet  street,  it  would  seem  that  he  had  not  been  prepared 
to  hear  from  her  own  lips  that  this  woman,  whom  he  had 
loved  all  his  life,  loved  another  man.  The  news,  coming 
suddenly  as  it  did,  almost  threw  him  off  his  mental 
equilibrium.  This  nauseating  sense  of  unsteadiness  in  a 
great  purpose  is  probably  not  quite  unknown  to  the 
majority  of  us.  It  is  so  easy  to  make  up  one's  mind  to  a 
noble  sacrifice  and  to  give  entire  attention  to  the  larger 


236  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

duties  attending  on  it.  Then  comes  some  sudden  un- 
foreseen demand  upon  our  self-suppression  ;  sometimes  it 
is  almost  trivial,  and  yet  it  leaves  us  shaken  and  un- 
certain. 

Oswin  remembered  the  jealous  pangs  with  which  he 
first  saw  these  two  together.  Subsequent  events  had 
disarmed  his  jealousy  and  allayed  his  fears.  Even  now 
he  could  not  realize  what  she  had  told  him.  And  yet  he 
was  mad  enough  to  believe  it.  Moreover,  he  continued 
to  believe  it.  It  was  only  at  a  subsequent  period  that 
he  began  to  doubt  and  to  analyze,  and  then  it  was  clear 
enough  to  him.  It  was  clear  that  in  implying  she  had  in 
no  way  committed  herself.  He  had  understood  her  to 
confess  that  she  was  on  the  verge  of  falling  in  love  with 
this  nineteenth-century  knight-errant,  and  yet  she  had 
made  no  such  confession.  It  is  probable  that  in  that  later 
season  he  remembered  the  words  and  not  the  manner  of 
saying  them.  For,  after  all,  the  most  important  thing  is 
not  what  we  say,  but  how  we  say  it.  Do  we  not  say 
every  day  the  same  trivial  things  that  were  said  in 
Pompeii  ?  Do  we  scribblers  not  write  the  same  silly  old 
story  over  and  over  again  ?  Do  we  not  smear  the  gilt 
over  the  same  stale  old  gingerbread,  and  try  to  make 
inexperienced  young  folks  believe  that  it  is  solid  gold,  just 
as  our  predecessors  endeavored  to  persuade  us  ? 

Suddenly  Oswin  Grace  seemed  to  recall  himself  to  the 
matter-of-fact  question  under  discussion. 

"  That,"  he  said,  "  is  the  worst  of  making  friends. 
One  is  bound  to  drift  away  from  them.  But  still  it  is 
foolish  to  hold  aloof  on  that  account." 

She  laughed  in  rather  a  strained  way. 

"  Our  maritime  philosopher,"  she  said,  "will  now  ex- 
pound a  maxim.  Ex-pound.  Derivation — to  pound 
out." 


Miss  Winter  Diverges.  237 

"  Shall  I  get  the  tickets  ? "  he  asked  in  a  practical 
way. 

"  Please.' 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  go  off  at  once  and  book  them." 

He  shook  hands  and  left  her  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  room. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  murmured  regretfully,  "  it  was  very 
cruel — or  it  may  be  only  my  own  self-conceit.  At  all 
events  it  was  not  so  cruel  as  they  are  to  Helen.  I  do  not 
think  that  they  will  both  go  now." 


238  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

GREEK  AND  GREEK. 

SCARCELY  had  the  front  door  closed  behind  Oswin 
Grace  when  the  bell  was  rung  again. 

Miss  Winter  standing  in  the  drawing-room  heard  the 
tones  of  a  man's  voice  and  in  a  few  moments  the  maid 
knocked  and  came  into  the  drawing-room. 

"  A  gentleman,  please,  Miss  ;  a  Mr.  Easton,"  she  said, 
doubtfully. 

"  Mr.  Easton,"  repeated  Agnes  Winter,  catching  the 
inflection  of  doubt.  For  a  moment  she  forgot  who  this 
might  be. 

"  He  gave  his  full  name,  Miss,"  added  the  servant  with 
faltering  gravity. 

"Oh." 

"Mr.  Matthew  Mark  Easton." 

"  Of  course — show  him  up  at  once." 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  had  evidently  devoted  son.e  care 
to  the  question  of  dress  on  this  occasion.  Some  extra 
care  perhaps,  for  he  was  a  peculiarly  neat  man.  He  al- 
ways wore  a  narrow  silk  tie  in  the  form  of  a  bow  of  which 
the  ends  were  allowed  to  stick  straight  out  sideways,  over 
the  waistcoat.  His  coat  was  embellished  by  an  orchid. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  began  at  once,  with  perfect  equa- 
nimity, "that  I  have  made  a  mistake — a  social  blunder." 

"  How  so  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Winter,  smiling  her  ready 
smile. 


Greek  and  Greek.  239 

"  I  do  not  think  that  your  hired  girl  expected  visitors  at 
this  time  in  the  morning,"  he  replied,  waiting  obviously 
for  her  to  take  a  seat. 

"  I  am  afraid  Ann  is  rather  eccentric,"  began  the  lady, 
apologetically,  but  he  stopped  her  with  a  laugh. 

"  Oh  no  !  "  he  said,  "  she  did  not  think  that  I  had  come 
about  the  gas-meter,  or  anything  like  that.  But  her  face 
is  expressive  if  homely  ;  plain,  I  mean." 

"  I  hope  that  it  only  expressed  polite  surprise." 

"  That  was  all,"  he  replied,  laying  on  the  table  a  few 
beautiful  flowers  which  he  had  been  carrying  loose  in  his 
hand.  There  were  orchids  and  white  lilac  and  pale  helio- 
trope. "  I  brought  you  these,"  he  explained,  "  but  I  did 
not  come  on  purpose  to  bring  them.  I  came  on  business, 
so  to  speak.  I  have  noticed  that  when  Englishmen  are  by 
way  of  being  sociable,  when  they  are  going  to  a  dance  or 
a  theater  or  to  make  calls,  they  always  carry  a  flower  in 
their  buttonhole,  so  I  bought  one.  I  thought  it  would  ex- 
plain to  your  domestic  servant  that  1  had  come  to  call, 
but  she  perhaps  failed  to  see  my  flower.  When  I  was 
buying  it,  I  saw  these  other  ones  and — and  thought  they 
would  look  nice  in  your  parlor." 

He  looked  round  him  in  his  formal  American  way,  and 
interrupted  her  thanks  by  saying  that  it  was  a  very  pretty 
room. 

She  rose,  and  taking  up  the  delicate  flowers  proceeded 
at  once  to  place  them  in  water. 

"I  came,"  he  then  explained,  "to  inform  you  that  I 
have  secured  a  box,  the  stage-box,  for  Wednesday  night, 
at  the  Epic  Theater.  It  will  be  doing  me  a  pleasure  if  you 
will  form  one  of  my  party." 

Still  engaged  with  the  flowers,  Miss  Winter  began 
thanking  him  vaguely  without  actually  accepting. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "  exactly  how  these  things 


240  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

are  managed  in  England,  but  I  want  Miss  Grace  and  her 
brother  to  come  as  my  guests  too.  Miss  Grace  was  kind 
enough  to  ask  me  to  be  one  of  a  theater  party,  and 
mentioned  the  Epic,  so  I  went  right  away  and  got  a  box." 

"  Oswin  has  just  gone  to  procure  seats  for  the  same 
night,"  said  Miss  Winter,  quickly. 

"  No,"  replied  the  American  ;  "  I  stopped  him.  I  met 
him  in  the  street." 

Miss  Winter  knew  that  they  must  have  met  actually 
on  her  doorstep,  and  she  wondered  why  he  should  have 
deliberately  made  a  misstatement.  She  felt  indefinitely 
guilty,  as  if  Oswin's  visit  had  been  surreptitious.  Sud- 
denly she  became  aware  of  the  quick  flitting  glance  of  her 
companion's  eyes,  noting  everything — each  tiny  flicker  of 
the  eyelids,  each  indrawn  breath,  each  slightest  movement. 

"How  am  I  to  do  it?"  he  asked,  innocently.  "A 
note  to  Miss  Grace,  or  a  verbal  invitation  to  her  brother  ?  " 

"A  note,"  replied  Miss  Winter,  with  a  gravity  equal 
to  his  own,  "to  Helen,  saying  that  you  have  secured  the 
stage-box  for  Wednesday  evening,  and  hope  that  she  and 
her  brother  will  accept  seats  in  it." 

He  nodded  his  head,  signifying  comprehension  and  rose 
to  go. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  ;  "  in  America  we  would  not  be 
so  circumlocutory.  We  would  say,  'Dear  Miss  Grace, 
will  you  come  to  the  theater  with  self  and  friends  on 
Wednesday  ? '  But  I  am  anxious  to  do  what  is  right  over 
here.  I  respect  your  British  institutions  and  your  do- 
mestic servants ;  the  two  hold  together  right  through. 
Half  the  institutions  are  adhered  to  on  account  of  the 
servants.  Half  your  British  gentlemen  dress  for  dinner 
because  their  butler  puts  on  a  claw-hammer  coat  for  the 
same.  Half  your  ladies  wash  their  hands  for  lunch 
because  the  hired  girl  has  taken  up  a  tin  of  hot  water." 


Greek  and  Greek.  241 

"  And  in  America,"  said  Miss  Winter,  who  had  not 
risen  from  her  seat,  "  you  have  no  respect  for  your 
servants  ?  " 

"  Not  much — we  pretend  we  have.  We  pretend  that 
we  are  all  equal,  and  of  course  we  are  not.  We  think  that 
we  are  very  simple,  and  we  are  in  reality  very  complex. 
Our  social  life  is  so  complicated  as  to  be  almost  impossible. 
No ;  you  are  the  simplest  people  on  earth,  because  you 
like  doing  exactly  what  your  immediate  ancestors  did. 
We  are  not  content  with  a  generation,  we  must  go  farther 
back  for  our  model,  or  else  we  have  no  model  at  all,  but 
try  to  be  one." 

"  I  think,"  said  Miss  Winter,  "that  you  are  more  con- 
scious of  yourselves  than  we  are.  I  do  not  mean  self- 
conscious  ;  it  is  not  so  strong  as  that.  You  are  self- 
analytical." 

"Yes,"  answered  Easton,  still  lingering,  although  he 
did  not  take  a  seat  in  obedience  to  her  evident  wish. 
"We  feel  our  own  feelings;  we  think  about  our  own 
thoughts  ;  nous  nous  ecoutons  mentally." 

"  As  a  nation  ?  "  she  inquired,  with  some  interest. 

"  Yes,  as  a  nation.  We  think,  and  talk,  and  write 
about  our  national  morals,  about  the  evolution  of  the 
national  mind.  You  have  nothing  in  common  but  your 
political  wrangles." 

"  England,"  said  Miss  Winter,  without  disparagement, 
indeed  with  a  sort  of  pride,  "  is  the  only  country  that  does 
not  talk  of  Progress,  and  write  it  with  a  capital  P." 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  came  back  again  towards  the 
fireplace  ;  like  all  Americans,  he  loved  comparisons. 

"  Progress,"  he  said,  "  spelt  as  you  suggest  is  a  disease. 

It  fixed  itself  upon  England  in  the  days  of  your  virgin 

queen  ;  you  have  lived  it  down,  and  are  all  the  stronger 

now  for  having  been  affected.     We  got  it  next,  and  I 

16 


242  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

surmise  that  we  had  it  badly.  France  is  suffering  now, 
and  she  has  had  a  still  sharper  attack,  so  sharp  that 
surgery  came  into  play — the  knife — the  knife  they  called 
the  guillotine.  Russia  is  the  next  upon  the  list ;  she  will 
have  it  worst  of  all,  her  surgery  will  be  effected  with  a 
dirty  ax." 

"  Your  mention  of  Russia,"  said  Miss  Winter,  skipping 
away  from  the  subject  under  discussion  with  all  the  incon 
sequence  of  her  sex  and  kind,  "  reminds  me  of  something 
I  heard  said  of  you  the  other  evening.     It  was,  in  fact, 
said  to  me." 

"  Then,"  replied  the  American,  with  cheery  gallantry, 
"  I  should  like  to  hear  it.  Had  it  been  said  to  any  one 
else  I  allow  that  I  should  have  been  indifferent." 

He  stood  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  look- 
ing down  at  her  with  a  smile  upon  his  wistful  little  face. 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Santow  ?  " 

The  smile  vanished,  and  the  dancing  eyes  at  once  as- 
sumed an  expression  of  alert  keenness,  which  was  almost 
ludicrous  in  its  contrast." 

"  The  Russian  attache — unaccredited  ?  "  he  replied, 
giving  back  question  for  question. 

Miss  Winter  nodded  her  head. 

"  No — "  he  said,  slowly  ;  "  I  do  not;  1  think  I  know 
him  by  sight." 

"  I  have  met  him  on  several  occasions.  I  rather  like 
him,  although  I  cannot  understand  him.  There  is  an  in- 
ward Mr.  Santow  whom  I  have  not  met  yet ;  I  only  know  a 
creature  who  smiles  and  behaves  generally  like  a  lamb." 

"Santow,"  said  Easton,  deliberately,  "is  altogether 
too  guileless." 

Miss  Winter  countered  sharply. 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  know  him  ?  " 

"  I  do  not,"  answered  Easton,  imperturbably. 


Greek  and  Greek.  243 

"  Except  by  reputation  ?  " 

"  Precisely." 

"He  is  reputed,"  said  Miss  Winter,  "to  be  a  great 
diplomatist." 

"  So  I  believe — hence  the  lamblike  manners." 

Easton's  face  was  a  study  in  the  art  of  suppressing 
curiosity. 

"  Do  you  think  that  he  is  a  wolf  in  lamb's-clothing  ?  " 
asked  the  lady  with  a  laugh. 

"  No  ;  I  think  he  is  an  ass,  if  you  will  excuse  a  slight 
mixture  of  metaphor." 

Miss  Winter  laughed  again  in  a  light-hearted,  irrespon- 
sible way. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  said,  "  what  he  said  about  you." 

"  Thank  you." 

"We  were  talking  about  Russia— it  is  his  favorite 
topic — and  he  said  that  at  times  he  felt  like  the  envoy 
from  some  heathen  country,  so  little  is  Russia  known  by 
us.  By  way  of  illustration  he  asked  me  to  look  round 
the  room  and  tell  him  if  it  did  not  contain  all  that  was 
most  intellectual  and  learned  in  England.  I  admitted  that 
he  was  right.  He  said,  '  And  yet  there  are  but  two  men 
in  the  room  who  speak  Russian.'  Then  he  pointed  you 
out.  '  That  is  one,'  he  said ;  '  he  knows  my  country 
better  than  any  man  in  England.  If  he  were  a  diplo- 
matist I  should  fear  him ! '  '  What  is  he  ? '  I  asked,  and 
he  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  that  guileless  way 
to  which  you  object." 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  did  not  appear  to  be  much  im- 
pressed. He  moved  from  one  foot  to  the  other  and  took 
considerable  interest  in  the  pattern  of  the  carpet. 

"  And,"  he  inquired,  "  did  he  mention  the  name  of  the 
second  accomplished  person  ?  " 

"  No." 


244  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  1  wonder  who  it  was  ?  "  said  Easton. 

"  Mr.  Tyars,"  suggested  the  lady,  calmly. 

"  Possibly.  By  the  way,  I  thought  of  asking  him  to 
join  us  on  Wednesday  at  the  Epic." 

"  I  hope,"  said  Miss  Winter,  with  a  gracious  little  bow, 
"that  he  will  be  able  to  come." 

"  '  Dear  Miss  Grace,'  "  began  Easton,  solemnly,  as  if 
repeating  a  lesson,  "  '  I  have  secured  the  stage-box  at 
the  Epic  for  Wednesday  evening  next,  and  hope  that  you 
and  your  brother  will  do  me  the  pleasure  of  accepting 
seats  in  it.'  Will  that  do  ?  " 

"  Very  nicely." 

"  And  I  may  count  on  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  you  may  count  on  me." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  simply,  and  took  his  depart- 
ure. 

As  he  walked  rapidly  eastward  towards  the  club  where 
he  was  expecting  to  meet  Tyars,  his  quaint  little  face  was 
wrinkled  up  into  a  thousand  interrogations. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  at  length,  with  a  knowing  nod, 
"  it  was  a  warning ;  that  spry  little  lady  smells  a  rat. 
How  does  she  know  that  Tyars  speaks  Russian  ?  He  is 
not  the  sort  of  fellow  to  boast  of  his  accomplishments. 
She  must  have  heard  it  from  Grace,  and  to  hear  from  him 
she  must  have  asked,  because  Grace  is  more  than  half 
inclined  to  be  jealous  of  Tyars,  and  would  take  care  not 
to  remove  the  bushel  from  his  light." 

For  some  time  he  walked  on  whistling  a  tune  softly. 
Cheerfulness  is  only  a  habit.  He  did  not  really  feel 
cheerful,  nor  particularly  inclined  for  music.  Then  he 
began  reflecting  in  an  undertone  again. 

"  Here  I  am,"  he  said,  "  in  a  terrible  fright  of  two 
women  ;  all  my  schemes  may  be  upset  by  either  of  them, 
and  I  do  not  know  which  to  fear  most — that  clever  little 


Greek  and  Greek.  245 

lady  with  her  sharp  wits,  or  that  girl's  eyes.  I  almost 
think  Miss  Helen's  eyes  are  the  more  dangerous ;  I  am 
sure  they  would  be  if  it  was  my  affair — if  it  was  me  whom 
those  quiet  eyes  followed  about.  But  it  is  not ;  it  is 
Tyars.  Now  I  wonder — I  wonder  if  he  knows  it  ?  " 


246  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 
EASTON'S    BOX. 

IT  occasionally  happens  to  the  most  astute  of  us  to  act, 
and  even  take  some  trouble  over  our  action  without  quite 
knowing  why  we  do  so.  There  is  a  little  motive  called 
human  impulse  which  at  times  upsets  the  deepest  calcula- 
tions. Not  one  of  us  has  met  a  man  or  woman  whose 
every  action  and  every  word  was  the  result  of  forethought, 
and  consequently  fraught  with  a  deeper  meaning  and  a 
fuller  design  than  would  appear  upon  the  surface.  Such 
persons  do  exist,  of  course — because  the  lady  novelist 
tells  us  so.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it.  I  merely  ven- 
ture to  observe  that  in  our  small  way  we  have  not  met 
them  yet  in  the  flesh. 

Had  the  keen-witted  Easton  been  asked  why  he  felt 
impelled  to  disburse  ten  guineas  for  the  benefit  of  the  lessee 
of  the  Epic  Theater  he  would  scarcely  have  been  able  to 
make  an  immediate  reply.  In  his  rapid  airy  fashion  he 
had  picked  up  and  pieced  together  certain  little  bits  of 
evidence  tending  to  prove  that  the  young  people  with  whom 
he  found  himself  on  somewhat  sudden  terms  of  intimacy 
were  exceedingly  partial  to  each  other's  society.  As  may 
have  been  gathered  from  his  own  outspoken  reflections, 
he  had  drawn  certain  conclusions  respecting  Helen  Grace. 
He  had  never  known  women  intimately,  and  to  him  as  to 
many  in  the  same  position  the  feelings  of  a  woman  were 
something  almost  sacred.  I  must  even  ask  you  to  believe 


Easton's  Box.  247 

that  he  held  the  quaint  old-fashioned  opinion  that  it  is 
man's  duty  to  spare  women  as  much  as  possible — to  make 
their  way  here  among  the  rocks  as  smooth  as  they  can — 
to  be  gallant  and  gentle — to  be  brave  for  them  and  to  fear 
for  them — to  look  upon  them  as  a  frail  and  delicate  and 
beautiful  treasure  placed  into  their  hands  to  cherish  and 
to  love  ;  to  be  proud  of.  Ha  !  ha  !  How  funny  it  sounds  ! 
How  ludicrous  !  Try  and  realize  that  men  like  you  and  me 
once  held  these  views  in  good  earnest — that  there  are  even 
a  few  holding  them  now.  But  of  course  the  rest  of  us 
know  better.  We  know  that  in  treasuring  and  cherishing 
we  insult  a  being  whose  soul  is  higher  than  ours,  whose 
intellect  would  be  loftier  than  ours  had  it  freedom  to  soar, 
whose  mere  physical  inferiority  in  the  matter  of  brute  force 
is  a  question  of  training  and  of  athletic  exercise.  Is  it 
possible  to  be  gallant  and  gentle  to  a  being  however  lovely 
who  can  get  up  on  the  first  platform  and  pour  forth  a 
stream  of  eloquence,  of  reason,  and  of  argument,  or  to  one 
who  can  sit  down  and  write  a  slashing  article  for  an  ad- 
vanced magazine  dealing  with  the  realistic  side  of  human 
life  boldly,  and  without  fear  ?  Mercil  Not  for  me.  Let 
us  admit  our  inferiority  at  once.  Our  slow  tongues  cleave 
to  the  roof  of  our  mouth  at  the  thought  of  debate — our 
halting  pens  splutter  at  the  brink  of  realism. 

In  this  respect,  then,  it  must  be  admitted  that  Matthew 
Mark  Easton  was  behind  the  times.  He  was  one  of  the 
millions  of  men  who  never  read  those  slashing  articles, 
and  never  attend  the  animated  debates  ;  one  of  the  millions 
who  stay  at  home,  and  read  the  comic  papers — who  are 
content  with  facts  and  ignore  fancies.  He  had  only  once 
met  a  modern  woman.  It  was  on  the  occasion  of  an  in- 
tellectual gathering  whither  he  had  repaired  in  the  hopes 
of  meeting  a  great  Russian  novelist.  As  soon  as  he  en- 
tered the  room  his  quick  eyes  detected  her — a  very  plain 


248  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

woman,  large  and  clumsy,  short-sighted  and  shockingly 
dressed.  Her  chief  outward  signs  of  greatness  were  an 
aggressive  eagerness  of  manner  and  a  deep-seated  sense 
of  self-satisfaction. 

"  What,"  inquired  Easton  very  gravely  of  a  friend, 
"  in  the  name  of  goodness  is  that  thing  ?  " 

On  receiving  a  detailed  reply,  he  added,  with  the  same 
imperturbable  solemnity — 

"  Then  take  it  away — send  it  off  in  a  hired  carriage — I 
don't  like  it." 

And  from  that  day  forth  he  treated  the  whole  question 
of  woman's  rights  with  the  same  reprehensible  levity. 
For  him  the  leaven  failed  to  affect  the  whole,  and  he  con- 
tinued to  hold  his  strange  old-world  views  of  womankind. 

He  had  no  desire  to  pry  into  the  secrets  of  Helen's 
heart.  Such  curiosity  would  have  been  unmanly  and 
cowardly.  But  he  simply  looked  upon  Claud  Tyars  as  a 
man  who  was  different  from  the  others  for  Helen  Grace. 
We  know  what  it  means,  some  of  us — that  difference  ; 
for  most  of  us  have  known  a  man  or  woman  who  was 
different  from  the  others. 

Under  the  circumstances  his  simple  creed  was  avoid- 
ance. He  was  no  Stoic,  this  little  American.  He  held  no 
mistaken  opinions  as  to  the  powers  of  endurance  vouch- 
safed to  the  human  heart.  Being  physically  delicate,  his 
perception  was  keener  and  his  knowledge  of  women  sub- 
tler than  that  of  a  strong  man  like  Claud  Tyars.  He 
was  however  eminently  practical.  Claud  Tyars  and 
Helen  Grace  were  clearly  called  upon  by  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances to  avoid  each  other.  If  they  declined  to  take 
the  initiative,  force  must  be  used.  Under  the  same  cir- 
cumstances Matthew  Mark  Easton  would  have  acted  up 
to  his  own  creed  with  a  steady  sense  of  purpose  amount- 
ing to  more  than  stoicism. 


Eastern's  Box.  249 

And  yet  he  deliberately  took  a  box  at  the  theater  and 
invited  the  two  young  people  to  join  his  party.  On  re- 
flection he  realized  suddenly  that  the  two  other  members 
of  the  party  were  in  an  almost  similar  position.  In  his 
anxiety  respecting  Tyars  he  had  quite  overlooked  the 
danger  to  which  he  was  exposing  Oswin  Grace.  He 
himself  was  the  fifth  man — an  alternative  third,  likely  to 
be  ill  received  by  either  couple.  He  tried  to  persuade 
himself  that  the  theater  scheme  would  have  been  uncon- 
ditionally carried  through  despite  any  efforts  of  his,  and 
that  as  his  guests  he  would  be  able  to  manage  these  peo- 
ple much  better  than  he  could  have  done  as  a  guest  of 
theirs.  But  he  was  distinctly  sensible  of  the  fact  that 
there  was  in  reality  no  question  of  management,  and  that 
in  practise  his  influence  over  any  of  the  persons  impli- 
cated was  remarkably  small. 

On  the  evening  fixed  Easton  took  care  to  be  early  on 
the  scene  of  action.  It  had  been  his  intention  to  invite 
Tyars  to  dine  with  him,  but  on  reflection  he  abandoned 
this  hospitable  scheme.  A  general  rendezvous  at  the 
theater  was  more  formal,  and  would  put  the  whole  affair 
in  the  light  of  a  bachelor's  return  for  hospitality  received, 
rather  than  the  gathering  together  of  close  friends.  This 
distinction  was  subtle ;  but  without  such  powers  of  dis- 
tinguishing no  man  gets  very  far  on  in  the  world.  The 
human  career  is  one  long  effort  at  distinction,  one  long 
choice  between  that  which  is  good  and  that  which  is  evil, 
between  things  profitable  and  unprofitable. 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  was  leisurely  surveying  the 
half-empty  house  when  Miss  Winter,  Helen  Grace,  and 
Oswin  were  shown  into  the  box  by  an  official.  His  quick 
glance  detected  a  momentary  droop  of  Helen's  eyelids. 
A  blundering  man  would  have  made  some  reference  to 
Tyars'  lateness  of  arrival.  Easton  did  no  such  thing. 


250  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

He  proceeded  to  draw  forward  chairs  for  the  ladies,  and 
did  the  honors  with  a  certain  calm  ease  which  in  no  way 
savored  of  familiarity. 

"  I  should  like,"  said  Miss  Winter,  untying  the  ribbon 
of  a  jaunty  little  opera-cloak,  "the  darkest  corner." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Helen,  almost  sharply. 

"  Because  the  piece  is  said  to  be  very  touching,  and 
I  invariably  weep." 

"Sorry,"  said  Easton  ;  "sorry  it  cannot  be  done. 
But  I  can  lend  you  a  huge  pair  of  opera-glasses." 

"  But,"  urged  Miss  Winter,  "  my  tears  drop — audibly  on 
the  program." 

"We  want  the  dark  corners  for  the  men — the  back- 
ground," urged  the  American,  holding  a  chair  invitingly. 
"  We  love  the  shadow — eh,  Grace  ?  " 

"  Speak  for  yourself,"  said  that  sailor  bluntly,  pulling 
forward  a  second  chair  and  seating  himself  immediately 
behind  Miss  Winter. 

Things  were  not  going  well.  There  was  a  vacant  chair 
close  to  that  occupied  by  Helen  Grace.  Easton  looked  at 
it  for  a  moment  and  then  deliberately  brought  another 
forward  from  the  back  of  the  box.  At  this  moment  the 
orchestra  ceased,  and  the  curtain  ran  smoothly  up.  All 
turned  their  eyes  towards  the  stage,  but  the  two  ladies 
glanced  occasionally  over  their  shoulders  as  if  in  expecta- 
tion of  a  new  arrival.  Matthew  Mark  Easton  saw  these 
glances,  but  his  imperturbable  little  smile  concealed  what- 
ever thoughts  may  have  been  passing  through  his  mind. 
The  manager  of  the  Epic  Theater  never  allowed  a  farce 
upon  his  stage.  The  first  play  this  evening  was  a  little 
story  of  Coppee's  skilfully  translated.  Like  most  of  that 
Frenchman's  productions,  the  interest  of  this  play  gathered 
and  culminated.  Half  unwillingly  the  four  occupants  of 
the  stage-box  allowed  themselves  to  become  interested. 


Easton's  Box.  251 

When  at  last  the  curtain  dropped  Claud  Tyars  was  stand- 
ing behind  them ;  he  had  entered  the  box  unheard  and 
unnoticed. 

During  the  greetings  that  followed,  more  than  one  per- 
son observed  that  he  looked  somewhat  stronger,  some- 
what larger  than  ever,  but  that  in  his  face  there  was  a 
difference.  It  lay,  perhaps,  in  the  fact  that  a  greater 
portion  of  sunburn  had  been  bleached  out  of  his  skin 
by  the  gloom  of  an  English  winter.  Oswin  Grace  was, 
curiously  enough,  reminded  at  that  moment  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent scene.  For  a  second  there  arose  in  his  mind  a 
vivid  recollection  of  the  moss-grown  deck  of  the  Martial, 
and  of  this  same  face,  these  same  deep  eyes  looking  at 
him  from  beneath  the  tattered  brim  of  an  old  Panama  hat. 
The  two  scenes  were  as  unlike  as  could  well  be  ;  but  in 
the  glare  of  the  pitiless  electric  light  there  was  a  momen- 
tary flash  of  stubborn  energy  which  the  young  sailor  had 
only  seen  in  one  pair  of  eyes  before,  under  the  scorching 
rays  of  a  tropical  sun.  It  may,  of  course,  have  been 
nothing  else  than  a  very  natural  contraction  of  the  eye- 
lids under  a  glare  of  light,  but  it  imparted  to  the  man's 
face  a  restless,  hunted  expression  quite  out  of  keeping 
with  his  placid  manner. 

Oswin  resumed  his  seat  beside  Miss  Winter  as  unos- 
tentatiously as  possible.  Easton  and  Tyars  were  thus 
left  standing  side  by  side.  Helen,  who  was  half  turned 
towards  them,  glanced  up  thoughtfully  from  time  to  time. 
The  contrast  they  afforded  might  well  have  struck  a  less 
observant  onlooker.  The  girl  raised  her  lace  fan  so  that 
she  might  watch  them  unobtrusively.  In  outward  appear- 
ance the  two  men  could  scarcely  have  been  less  similar. 
One  tall,  rather  fair,  and  singularly  quiet;  the  other 
small,  nervous,  quick,  and  dark.  The  one  was  eminently 
and  undoubtedly  an  athlete,  the  outturn  of  English  public 


252  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

school  and  university  ;  the  other  frail  and  intellectual.  He 
might  possess  deftness,  nimbleness,  skill,  but  in  the  nerv- 
ous limbs  there  could  be  no  great  strength.  They  al- 
most looked  like  beings  of  a  different  creation,  and  yet 
they  were  what  we  vaguely  call  "chums."  Tyars  was 
wont  to  speak  of  his  "  friend  Easton  "  in  a  careless  Brit- 
annic way,  while  the  American  talked  of  "  Old  Tyars" 
with  undisguised  affection. 

Chance  observers  in  the  other  parts  of  the  theater 
glanced  at  the  stage-box,  noted  the  presence  of  two  beau- 
tiful women,  and  some  perhaps  looked  beyond  the  two  gra- 
cious heads.  If  such  there  were,  they  probably  passed 
on  with  a  mere  mental  comment  respecting  the  big,  fine- 
looking  fellow  and  the  insignificant  little  man  at  his  side. 
No  one  would  have  associated  them  in  a  joint  labor,  no 
one  would  have  put  them  down  as  Quixotic  law-breakers. 
It  is  so  easy,  you  see,  to  conspire,  so  simple  to  break  the 
law  if  you  have  only  a  decent  coat  upon  your  back. 

But  the  girl  who  was  watching  them  close  at  hand  had 
no  suspicion  of  aught  concealed  from  her.  She  only 
knew  that  they  were  singular  men,  that  they  were  the 
only  two  who  had  yet  crossed  the  pathway  of  her  young 
life  without  raising  their  eyes  from  the  road  they  trod. 
With  the  intuition  of  her  sex  she  had  unconsciously  found 
the  one  characteristic  possessed  by  both.  Without  analy- 
sis, without  study  it  had  come  to  her.  She  was  simply 
aware  of  it — the  knowledge  had  crept  into  her  soul 
stealthily.  She  knew  that  they  were  equally  possessed  of 
an  abnormal  strength  of  purpose.  Then  she  found  herself 
wondering  what  the  mental  attitude  of  each  might  be  to- 
wards the  other.  She  had  seen  them  together  frequently, 
it  is  true,  but  they  were  not  effusive.  They  almost  ig- 
nored each  other.  There  was  something  in  their  attitudes, 
as  they  stood  side  by  side  without  speaking,  which  told 


Easton's  Box.  253 

Helen  in  plainer  language  that  they  were  friends  than 
any  social  intercourse  had  hitherto  demonstrated.  She 
wondered  vaguely  in  which  mind  was  hidden  the  initia- 
tive, in  which  the  executive,  and  by  natural  transition  she 
glided  on  to  mental  questions  as  to  how  each  and  both 
would  act  in  a  crisis,  in  a  moment  of  physical  or  moral 
danger.  For  maidens,  I  take  it,  are  little  altered  since 
those  brave  days  when  gentlemen  were  knights.  I  be- 
lieve that  they  still  would  wish  us  to  be  upright  and  fearless 
before  the  world.  It  boots  not  that  we  be  very  clever  or 
very  intellectual,  great  musicians,  artists,  writers  ;  but 
they  would  have  us  gentle  towards  themselves,  very 
cool,  and  quite  ready  in  moments  of  danger.  They 
would  have  us  readier  with  our  hands  than  with  our 
tongues,  strong  and  simple — manly. 

It  was  rather  strange  that  Helen  Grace  should  have 
had  these  thoughts  just  then.  Later  on,  when  she  could 
remember  anything  at  all  she  recollected  them  and  won- 
dered if  it  was  really  a  mere  coincidence. 

For  some  time  the  two  men  stood,  each  declining  to 
make  the  first  move.  There  were  two  chairs,  but  one 
had  a  distinct  advantage  over  the  other.  At  last 
Easton  pointed  to  the  seat  close  to  Helen. 

"  Will  you  sit  there,  Tyars  ?  "  he  said  hospitably. 

One  great  fault  in  Matthew  Mark  Easton  was  soft-heart- 
edness.  He  was  one  of  those  mistaken  men  who  hesi- 
tate to  punish  a  dog. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Englishman,  appropriating  the 
chair  nonchalantly. 

"  It  appears,"  continued  Easton,  who  was  beginning  to 
fear  that  Tyars  was  in  a  silent  mood,  "  that  the  piece  is 
touching.  We  shall  require  your  moral  support ;  that 
calm  exterior  of  yours  will,  I  surmise,  assist  us  materially 
to  keep  a  serene  countenance  turned  towards  the  stalls." 


254  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  Don't  be  personal,"  replied  the  Englishman.  "  You 
may  rely  upon  me  at  the  pathetic  parts.  It  is  some  years 
since  I  wept." 

"  The  last  time  I  did  it,"  said  the  American,  thought- 
fully, "  was  when  I  got  my  ears  boxed  because  another 
fellow  broke  a  window." 

Helen  and  Miss  Winter  laughed.  They  all  felt  that 
there  was  a  hitch  somewhere.  They  were  conversation- 
ally lame  and  halt. 

"We  both  told  untruths  about  it,"  continued  Easton, 
determined  to  work  this  mine  to  its  deepest.  "  But  mine 
failed  while  his  succeeded.  That  was  why  I  wept.  Mine 
was  not  an  artistic  lie,  I  admit ;  but  it  might  have  got 
through  with  a  little  good  luck.  There  is  nothing  so  hu- 
miliating as  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  pervert  the  truth. 
Have  you  not  found  that  so,  Miss  Winter  ?  But  of  course 
you  would  not  know.  I  apologize  ;  I  am  sorry.  Of  course 
you  never  tell  them." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  lady  candidly,  "  I  do." 

At  this  moment  the  curtain  was  drawn  up,  and  Miss 
Winter  broke  off  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  her  confession, 
turning  towards  the  stage  and  settling  herself  comfortably 
to  watch  the  play.  In  so  doing  she  unconsciously  drew 
her  chair  a  little  farther  away  from  Helen,  and  thus  left 
her  and  Claud  Tyars  more  distinctly  apart. 

This  was  scarcely  noticeable  during  the  act,  which  was 
of  a  thrilling  and  absorbing  nature  ;  but  when  the  curtain 
fell  again  it  was  suddenly  obvious  to  them  both  that  they 
could  now  talk  in  slightly  lowered  tones  without  being 
overheard. 


An  Emergency.  255 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

AN   EMERGENCY. 

THE  effect  of  the  discovery  that  they  distinctly  formed 
a  group  apart  was  barely  visible  to  the  keenest  glance. 
Helen's  slow  gentle  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  center 
of  the  house,  bent  vaguely  on  the  brightly  dressed  oc- 
cupants of  the  stalls. 

Tyars  took  up  a  program  and  began  studying  it. 

"  Who  is  the  man,"  he  said,  "  playing  the  villain  ?  I 
am  frightfully  ignorant  in  theatrical  matters." 

"  He  is  good,  is  he  not  ?  "  said  the  girl,  mentioning  the 
actor's  name. 

"  Yes.  He  is  unconscious  of  being  a  villain,  which 
touch  of  nature  makes  him  very  human." 

Helen  seemed  to  be  rather  struck  with  these  words, 
spoken  indifferently  with  down-turned  eyes. 

"  Are  villains  in  real  life  unconscious  of  their  villainy  ?  " 
she  asked  at  length,  with  perfunctory  interest. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  answered,  with  a  preoccupation 
which  saved  his  manner  from  being  actually  rude;  "I 
should  think  so — yes — certainly." 

He  raised  his  head,  and  the  effort  with  which  he  avoided 
looking  towards  her  was  probably  detected  by  the  gentle 
gray  eyes. 

There  was  a  little  silence  :  hardly  irksome  because  the 
invisible  orchestra  was  now  in  full  blast. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Helen,  closing  her  fan,  "  that  all  this 


256  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

is  rather  trivial  for  you.  The  interest  you  take  in  it  must 
be  superficial  now  that  you  are  so  busy." 

"  Oh  no  !  "  Tyars  hastened  to  begin  ;  he  was  looking 
past  her  in  that  strangely  persistent  way  into  the  theater, 
and  something  he  saw  there  made  him  turn  his  head 
quickly  towards  the  stage. 

"  Hallo  !  "  he  exclaimed.  Then  he  caught  her  wrist  in 
his  grasp.  "  Keep  still,"  he  whispered. 

The  painted  curtain  was  bellying  right  forward  like  the 
mainsail  of  a  bark,  and  from  the  space  at  either  side  a 
sudden  volume  of  smoke  poured  forth  in  huge  uneven 
clouds. 

In  a  second  the  whole  audience  was  on  its  feet,  and  for 
a  moment  a  sickening  silence  reigned — the  breathless 
silence  of  supreme  fear. 

Then  a  single  form  appeared  on  the  stage.  It  was  that 
of  the  man  referred  to  by  Claud  Tyars  a  moment  before  ; 
he  who  played  the  villain's  part  so  unconsciously.  He 
was  still  in  his  dark  wig  and  pallid  make-up.  On  his  arm 
he  carried  the  coat  he  had  just  taken  off,  and  the  other 
arm  clad  in  white  shirt-sleeve  was  raised  in  a  gesture  of 
command. 

"I  must  ask  you,"  he  cried,  in  a  full  clear  voice,  "  to 
leave  your  seats  as  .  .  ." 

And  his  tones  were  drowned,  completely  overwhelmed 
by  a  strange  unearthly  roar ;  the  roar  of  a  thousand 
human  voices  raised  in  one  surging  wail  of  despair,  like 
the  din  of  surf  upon  a  shingle  shore. 

The  man  shouted,  and  his  gestures  were  almost  ludicrous 
even  at  that  supreme  moment,  for  no  sound  could  be 
heard  from  his  lips. 

Then  the  gas  was  turned  out,  and  in  the  darkness  a  ter- 
rible struggle  began.  Some  who  came  out  of  it  could  liken 
it  to  nothing  on  earth,  but  they  said  that  they  had  gained  a 


An  Emergency.  257 

clearer  comprehension  of  what  hell  might  be.  Women 
shrieked  and  men  forgot  themselves — blaspheming  aloud. 

As  the  gas  flickered  and  finally  collapsed,  those  in  the 
stage-box  caught  a  momentary  vision  of  wild  distorted 
faces  coming  towards  them.  The  pit  had  overflowed  the 
stalls.  Strong  barriers  crumbled  like  matchwood.  Into 
a  hundred  minds  at  once  there  had  flashed  the  hope  of 
escape  through  the  stage-boxes. 

"  Grace  !  Easton  !  "  It  was  Tyars'  voice  raised,  and 
yet  not  shouting.  The  crisis  had  come,  the  danger  was 
at  hand,  and  Helen  knew  who  it  was  that  would  take  the 
lead. 

She  heard  the  two  men  answer. 

"  Keep  the  people  back.  I  will  break  open  the  door  on 
to  the  stage  ;  it  is  our  best  chance." 

The  girl  felt  herself  lifted  from  the  ground  and  carried 
to  the  back  of  the  box. 

"  Helen  !  "  whispered  Tyars. 

"  Yes ! " 

"  Are  you  all  right  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  thought  you  had  fainted,  you  were  so  quiet !  Hold 
on  to  my  coat !  Never  leave  go  of  that !  " 

He  turned  away  from  her,  and  above  the  din  and  up- 
roar came  the  sound  of  his  blows  upon  the  woodwork  of 
the  door.  It  seemed  impossible  that  such  strokes  could 
have  been  dealt  by  an  unarmed  human  hand. 

Between  the  blows  came  the  sickening  sound  of  the 
struggle  at  the  front  of  the  box.  Imprecations,  blasphemy, 
and  supplications,  mingled  with  groans  and  the  dull  thud 
of  merciless  fists  upon  human  faces.  Shoulder  to  shoulder 
the  two  men — the  American  and  the  Englishman — fought 
for  the  lives  of  the  women  placed  by  the  hand  of  God 
under  their  protection.  It  was  a  terrible  task,  though  few 
17 


258  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

women  reached  the  front  of  the  box.  Each  man  struck 
down,  each  assailant  beaten  back  was  doomed,  and  the 
defenders  knew  it.  Once  down,  once  underfoot,  and  it 
was  a  matter  of  moments. 

Fresh  assailants  came  crowding  on,  treading  on  the  fallen 
and  consequently  obtaining  an  ever-increasing  advan- 
tage as  they  rose  on  a  level  with  the  defenders.  Neither 
seemed  to  question  the  wisdom  of  Tyars'  command.  It 
was  a  matter  of  life  or  death.  Those  already  in  the  stage- 
box  would  only  be  crushed  by  the  onrush  of  the  others 
were  they  allowed  to  enter.  With  a  dazed  desperation 
the  two  men  faced  the  frightful  odds,  hammering  wildly 
with  both  fists.  Their  arms  ached  from  sheer  hard  work, 
and  they  panted  hoarsely.  Their  eyeballs  throbbed  with 
the  effort  to  pierce  unfathomable  darkness.  It  was  quite 
certain  that  their  defense  could  not  last  long. 

"  Stick  to  it !  "  yelled  Tyars.  He  might  have  been  on 
the  deck  of  the  Martial  during  a  white  squall,  so  great 
was  the  uproar  all  around  him. 

At  last  there  was  the  sound  of  breaking  wood. 

"  Grace  !  "  shouted  the  voice  of  Tyars. 

"Yes." 

"  Look  after  Miss  Winter  when  we  go." 

"Right." 

"  Easton  !  "  he  cried  again. 

"Yes,  old  man!" 

"  Come  last,  and  keep  them  back  if  you  can." 

Then  a  minute  later  he  shouted,  "  Come  !  " 

At  the  same  instant  the  roaring  crowd  of  madmen 
poured  in  over  the  low  front  of  the  box,  like  soldiers 
storming  a  bastion.  The  door  which  Tyars  had  succeeded 
in  opening  was  so  narrow  as  to  admit  of  the  passage 
of  only  one  person  at  a  time,  but  at  this  instant  the  larger 
door  leading  into  a  narrow  passage,  the  real  exit  from  the 


An  Emergency.  259 

stage-box,  broke  down  before  a  pressure  from  without, 
and  from  this  point  also  a  stream  of  half-demented  beings 
tried  to  force  an  entrance. 

The  only  advantage  possessed  by  the  original  occupants 
of  the  box  was  that  they  knew  the  position  of  the  small 
door. 

The  subsequent  recollections  of  such  individuals  as 
survived  were  so  fragmentary  and  vague  that  no  con- 
nected story  of  the  terrible  tragedy  in  the  stage-box  of 
the  Epic  Theater  was  ever  given  to  the  public. 

Miss  Winter  remembered  finding  herself  caught  up  in  a 
strong  pair  of  arms,  which  she  presumed  to  be  those  of 
Oswin  Grace.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  she  and  her 
protector  were  thrown  to  the  ground.  After  that  the  next 
thing  she  could  remember  was  the  touch  of  a  hand  over 
her  face  and  hair,  and  a  whispered  voice  in  her  ear— 

"  Agnes  Winter — is  this  you  ?  " 

She  recognized  the  peculiar  American  twang  which  was 
never  unpleasant.  At  that  moment  she  almost  laughed. 

"Yes — yes,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  crawl  to  your  left.  Don't  try  to  get  up — crawl 
over  this  man.  I  don't  know  who  he  is,  but  I  surmise  he 
is  dead." 

She  obeyed,  and  found  her  way  out  of  the  narrow  door 
and  up  some  steps.  Close  behind  her  followed  some  one, 
whom  she  took  to  be  Matthew  Mark  Easton,  but  it  ulti- 
mately turned  out  to  be  Oswin  Grace,  who  was  in  his 
turn  followed  by  the  American,  but  not  until  later. 

Helen  Grace  heard  the  word  "  Come,"  and  submitted 
obediently  to  the  supporting  arm  which  half  dragged,  half 
carried  her  up  some  steps.  She  remembered  being  carried 
like  a  child,  through  some  darksome  place  where  the 
atmosphere  was  cold  and  damp.  Then  she  was  conscious 
of  a  halt,  followed  closely  by  the  sound  of  breaking  wood 


260  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

and  the  tearing  of  some  material — probably  canvas,  for 
they  were  among  the  scenery.  After  that  she  probably 
fainted,  and  was  only  brought  to  consciousness  by  the 
shock  of  a  violent  fall  in  which  her  companion  was  under- 
most. Then  she  heard  a  voice  calling  out — 

"  This  way,  sir ;  this  way." 

She  recollected  seeing  a  fireman  standing  in  a  narrow 
passage  waving  a  lantern.  By  the  time  that  she  reached 
the  open  air  she  was  quite  conscious. 

"  Let  me  walk,"  she  said,  "  I  am  all  right.  Where  is 
Agnes  ?  " 

"They  are  behind,"  answered  Tyars.  "She  is  all 
right.  She  has  two  men  to  look  after  her.  You  have 
only  me." 

"  Wait  for  them,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  will  not  go  home 
without  them." 

"All  right;  we  shall  wait  outside.  Let  us  get  out 
first." 

They  were  standing  in  a  small  room,  probably  the 
office  of  the  theater,  and  a  policeman  stationed  near  the 
window,  of  which  the  framework  had  been  broken  away, 
called  to  them  impatiently. 

The  window  was  about  four  feet  from  the  ground,  and 
Helen  wondered  momentarily  why  Claud  Tyars  accom- 
plished the  drop  so  clumsily.  In  the  narrow  street  he 
turned  to  a  police  inspector,  and  pointed  to  the  window. 

"  Lift  the  lady  down,"  he  said. 

A  cab  was  near  at  hand,  and  in  it  they  waited — seated 
side  by  side  in  silence — for  what  seemed  hours.  The 
crowd  dropped  away,  seeking  some  more  interesting  spot. 
At  last  there  was  a  movement  at  the  window,  and  Tyars 
got  out  of  the  cab  and  went  away,  leaving  Helen  in  an 
agony  of  mute  suspense.  In  a  few  moments  it  was  over 
and  the  girl  breathed  freely. 


An  Emergency.  261 

It  seemed  strangely  unreal  and  dreamlike  to  hear 
Agnes  Winter's  voice  again  ;  to  see  her  standing  on  the 
pavement  beneath  the  yellow  gas-lamp,  drawing  together 
the  gay  little  opera-cloak  round  her  shoulders. 

As  Miss  Winter  stepped  into  the  cab  she  leant  forward 
and  kissed  Helen.  That  was  all ;  no  word  was  said. 
But  the  two  women  sat  hand-in-hand  during  the  drive 
home. 

Tyars  and  Oswin  spoke  together  a  few  words  in  a  low- 
ered tone  quite  overwhelmed  by  the  rattle  of  the  cab,  and 
then  sat  silently.  The  light  of  occasional  lamps  flashed 
in  through  the  unwashed  window,  and  showed  that  the 
men's  clothes  were  covered  with  dirt  and  dust,  which 
neither  attempted  to  brush  off. 

When  the  cab  stopped  in  Brook  Street,  Oswin  got  out 
first,  and  going  up  the  steps  opened  the  front  door  noise- 
lessly with  a  latchkey.  Tyars  paid  the  cabman,  and 
followed  the  ladies  into  the  house. 

The  gas  in  the  hall  and  dining-room  had  been  lowered, 
and  they  all  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  gloom  round  the 
daintily-dressed  table.  When  Oswin  Grace  turned  up  the 
gas  they  looked  at  each  other  curiously. 

The  two  men  bore  greater  evidence  to  the  terrible 
ordeal  through  which  they  had  passed  than  the  ladies. 
Oswin's  coat-sleeve  was  nearly  torn  off,  while  his  waist- 
coat hung  open,  all  the  buttons  having  been  wrenched 
away.  Upon  his  shirt-front  there  were  deep  red  drops  of 
blood  slowly  congealing,  and  the  marks  of  dirty  fingers 
right  across  the  rumpled  linen.  His  face  was  deeply 
scratched,  and  the  blood  had  trickled  down  into  his  trim 
dark  beard,  unheeded,  unquenched. 

As  to  clothing,  Claud  Tyars  was  very  much  in  the  same 
condition,  but  there  was  a  peculiarity  worth  noting  in  the 
expression  of  his  face  as  he  looked  round  with  a  half-sup- 


262  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

pressed  smile.  All  the  lines  of  care  were  smoothed  away 
from  it.  In  his  eyes  there  dwelt  a  clear  glow  of  excite- 
ment (the  deep  inward  excitement  of  a  man  accustomed 
to  the  exercise  of  an  iron  control  over  his  own  feelings), 
which  had  taken  the  place  of  a  certain  concentrated  frown 
of  preoccupation,  as  if  something  were  going  wrong. 

There  was  something  characteristic  of  their  calling  in 
the  manner  in  which  both  men  ignored  completely  the 
dilapidated  condition  of  their  apparel.  That  alone  would 
have  told  a  keen  observer  that  they  were  sailors — men 
accustomed  to  foul  weather  and  heavy  damage — accus- 
tomed to  accepting  things  as  they  come  with  a  placid  hope 
of  fairer  weather  ahead  when  repairs  might  be  effected. 

Miss  Winter  kept  her  opera-cloak  closed,  simply  stat- 
ing that  her  dress  was  torn.  Her  hair  was  becomingly 
untidy,  but  she  showed  no  sign  of  scratch  or  hurt. 

Helen  was  hardly  ruffled,  beyond  a  few  little  stray 
curls,  almost  golden  in  color,  stealing  down  beside  her 
ears.  Her  dress,  however,  was  a  little  torn  at  one 
shoulder,  and  a  tiny  scratch  was  visible  upon  the  white 
arm  exposed  to  view.  She  doubtless  owed  her  immunity 
from  harm,  and  in  all  human  probability  the  safety  of  her 
life,  to  the  enormous  bodily  strength  of  Claud  Tyars. 

It  was  she  who  spoke  first. 

"  Your  arm  !  "  she  said,  pointing  to  Tyars'  right  sleeve. 
"  Have  you  hurt  it  ?  " 

He  looked  down  at  the  limb,  which  was  hanging  in  a 
peculiar  way  very  close  to  his  body,  with  a  vague  and 
questioning  smile,  as  if  it  were  not  his  property. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  is  broken." 

Miss  Winter  and  Oswin  went  to  his  side  at  once. 
Helen  alone  remained  standing  at  the  table.  She  said  no 
word,  but  continued  looking  at  him  with  very  bright 
eyes,  her  lips  slightly  parted,  breathing  deeply. 


An  Emergency.  263 

He  avoided  meeting  her  glance  in  the  same  awkward, 
embarrassed  way  which  she  had  noticed  before  ;  answer- 
ing the  questions  put  to  him  with  a  reassuring  smile. 

"  It  happened,"  he  said,  "  during  the  first  rush.  We 
fell  down  somewhere  through  some  scenery,  and  my  arm 
came  underneath." 

"You  put  it  underneath,"  corrected  Helen,  almost 
coldly,  "to  ...  save  me,  I  suppose." 

Her  first  feeling  was  unaccountably  akin  to  anger. 

"  Instinct,"  he  exclaimed,  tersely. 

"  Shall  I  fetch  a  doctor,  or  will  you  come  with  me  ?  " 
asked  the  practical  Oswin,  gently  forcing  his  friend Jnto 
a  chair.  "  We  are  surrounded  by  them  in  Brook  Street." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  answered  Tyars.  "  But  first,  I 
think,  we  had  better  see  that  the  ladies  have  some  wine." 

With  his  left  hand  he  reached  a  decanter,  but  Miss 
Winter  took  it  from  him. 

"  You  must  have  some,"  she  said,  pouring  it  out. 

"  No,  thanks,"  he  replied;  "  I  think  not,  on  account 
of  inflammation." 

"He  is  better  without  it,"  added  Oswin. 

Miss  Winter  gave  a  little  short  laugh,  very  suggestive 
of  annoyance. 

"You  men  are  so  terribly  practical.  I  should  like  to 
sympathize  with  Mr.  Tyars,  to  minister  to  him,  and  take 
up  a  picturesque  attitude,  but  you  give  me  no  chance," 
she  said,  with  a  bantering  air  which  was  half  serious. 

"  An  arm  broken  below  the  elbow  is  not  so  very 
serious,"  explained  Tyars. 

"  Claud,"  added  Oswin  Grace,  "  is  one  of  those  great 
strong  healthy  people  who  heal  like  horses." 

Nevertheless  he  kept  close  to  his  large  friend,  and 
glanced  at  times  into  the  colorless  face  with  those  keen 
experienced  gray  eyes  of  his. 


264  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

It  was,  as  Tyars  had  said,  nothing  very  serious — a 
simple  fracture  below  the  elbow  and  well  above  the  wrist 
— but  the  consequences  of  it  might  be  serious.  Claud 
Tyars  was  not  thinking  of  the  numb,  aching  pain  which 
had  now  spread  right  up  his  arm.  It  was  only  natural 
that  the  first  thought  should  be  for  the  great  absorbing 
scheme  which  was  filling  his  mind.  In  little  more  than 
two  months  he  was  to  sail  from  London.  In  nine  weeks 
he  was  to  lead  a  picked  body  of  men  forth  on  an  expedi- 
tion of  which  the  peril  was  patent  to  them  all.  He  could 
not  afford  to  devote  his  few  remaining  days  of  prepara- 
tion to  his  own  health,  to  the  mere  recovery  from  the 
effects  of  an  accident.  There  were  a  thousand  details 
still  to  be  cared  for — details  which  none  other  but  himself 
could  grasp  or  cope  with.  For  it  is  the  man  who  reduces 
detail  to  a  minimum  in  his  own  daily  existence,  and  sees 
personally  to  that  minimum,  who  finds  time  to  do  great 
things  in  life.  If  we  hand  details  over  to  others — if  we 
wish  to  be  waited  on  hand  and  foot  in  order  to  find  leisure 
for  the  larger  items  of  the  conglomerate  detail  called  a 
career,  we  shall  probably  employ  all  our  time  in  endeav- 
oring to  teach  others  to  divine  our  wants. 

There  are  men  in  the  world  who  pack  their  own  bags, 
and  others  who  make  the  task  over  to  some  one  else. 
Claud  Tyars  was  of  the  former ;  he  habitually  did  his 
own  packing. 


A  Midnight  Call.  265 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
A  MIDNIGHT    CALL. 

REFUSING  all  offers  of  hospitality  made  by  Oswin  and 
his  sister,  Claud  Tyars  went  off  with  his  friend  to  the 
doctor's,  leaving  the  ladies  comfortably  installed  in  arm- 
chairs by  the  fire. 

They  protested  that  they  could  not  possibly  sleep,  and 
that,  as  it  was  only  twelve  o'clock,  they  would  await 
Oswin's  return. 

You  will  say,  perhaps,  that  they  were  all  a  trifle  too 
self-possessed  and  calm  to  be  quite  natural.  Critical 
readers  will  be  inclined  to  give  judgment  against  the  poor 
narrator  of  these  events,  accusing  him  of  mismanagement. 
But  there  is  a  certain  merit  in  truthfulness.  If  any  of 
these  ladies  had  fainted,  and  clung  wildly  to  their  rescuers 
with  bewildering  abandonment,  it  should  have  been  re- 
corded. If  Helen  Grace  had  whispered  neatly-turned 
phrases  expressive  of  gratitude  to  the  hungering  ears  of 
Claud  Tyars,  those  words  should  have  been  set  down 
here.  But  none  of  these  things  happened.  What  really 
took  place  is  narrated  above  ;  and  it  is  not  the  fault  of  the 
writer  if  these  persons  chose  to  lose  a  series  of  dramatic 
points,  to  ignore  a  number  of  thrilling  situations,  and  to 
refrain  from  anything  approaching  heroics. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  that  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
this  latter  end  of  the  nineteenth  century  are  difficult  sub- 
jects to  write  about.  They  will  not,  like  folks  upon  the 


266  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

stage,  make  facial  contortions  capable  of  record  as  show- 
ing inward  emotions.  They  will  not  laugh  fiendish  laughs, 
nor  sigh  "heigho!"  nor  tear  their  hair,  nor  beat  their 
bosoms  as  people  did  fifty  years  ago,  if  one  may  judge 
from  fictional  literature.  They  are  so  persistently  self- 
possessed  that  one  cannot  wring  a  dramatic  situation  out 
of  them  anyhow. 

We  live  so  quickly  nowadays,  pass  through  so  many 
emotions  in  the  day,  that  our  feelings  are  apt  to  lose  their 
individuality.  When  a  man  can  attend  a  christening  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  a  wedding  in  Bristol  Cathedral,  a 
funeral  at  Exeter,  and  finally  partake  of  a  regimental  din- 
ner at  Plymouth,  in  the  same  day,  one  must  hardly  blame 
him  for  failing  to  be  deeply  moved  by  any  one  of  the  cer- 
emonies mentioned. 

Claud  Tyars  actually  said  "  Good-night,"  as  he  pre- 
ceded Oswin  Grace  out  of  the  room.  Such  an  exit  was 
utterly  false  to  dramatic  art,  utterly  clumsy  and  ignorant. 
Now  what  can  one  do  with  such  a  man  as  this  ?  He  did 
not  even  limp  in  order  to  show  that  his  arm  was  injured, 
as  has  been  done  upon  the  English  stage,  but  walked  out 
of  the  room  without  looking  back. 

And  the  two  ladies  left  there  sat,  each  in  her  deep  arm- 
chair, toasting  her  neatly-shod  toes  on  the  fender,  and 
said  never  a  word.  They  both  stared  into  the  fire  with 
such  a  marked  persistence,  that  one  might  almost  have 
suspected  them  of  fearing  to  meet  each  other's  glance. 

At  last  Helen  moved.  She  had  evidently  just  become 
aware  of  a  black  mark  on  the  soft  mauve  material  of  her 
dress.  With  her  gloved  hand  she  attempted  to  brush  it 
off,  and  as  this  had  no  effect  began  rubbing  it  with  a  tiny 
handkerchief.  Then  she  raised  her  eyes.  Miss  Winter 
was  watching  her  with  a  curious  smile — a  smile  much 
more  suggestive  of  pain  than  of  pleasure. 


A  Midnight  Call.  267 

Their  eyes  met,  and  for  some  moments  both  seemed  on 
the  verge  of  saying  something,  which  was  never  said. 
Then  suddenly  Helen  leant  forward  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  two  hands. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  woman  weep  from  whose  eyes 
tears  have  never  flowed  since  childhood  ?  Have  you  ever 
seen  eyes  kindling  with  a  strange  surprise  through  tears 
as  if  they  could  not  understand  what  was  blinding  and 
burning  them  ?  It  is  often  hard  to  realize  sorrow,  and  it 
is  always  hard  to  accept  it  as  one's  own  property.  With 
some  the  power  of  assimilating  sorrow  is  merely  a  matter 
of  tears,  with  others  it  is  a  dryer  process.  The  habit  of 
shedding  tears  brings  a  familiarity  which  deprives  them 
of  their  bitterness.  Most  people,  however,  and  especially 
in  this  generation,  weep  but  once  or  twice  in  their  whole 
lives.  The  majority,  thank  God  !  only  once.  Again,  the 
most  of  us  do  it  in  solitude,  so  that  others  are  spared  the 
sight.  It  seemed  to  come  to  Helen  Grace  without  pre- 
monition as  a  harsh  surprise — just  as  death  will  come  to 
some  of  us.  She  had  no  time  to  fly  to  her  own  room — no 
chance  of  exercising  over  herself  that  command  which 
she  had  learnt  from  living  with  men  alone. 

It  is  just  possible  that  Miss  Winter  was  not  without  ex- 
perience in  these  same  tears.  One  can  never  be  quite 
sure  of  these  very  cheery  women  whom  one  meets  every- 
where. She  made  no  attempts  at  consolation.  She  did 
not  look  towards  her  friend,  and  there  was  no  outward 
sign  even  of  sympathy,  except  that  her  eyes  glistened  in 
a  peculiar  way.  She  merely  waited,  and,  moreover,  she 
had  not  long  to  do  so.  Helen  recovered  herself  as  suddenly 
as  she  had  given  way,  and  rising  from  her  chair,  stood 
with  her  shoulder  turned  towards  her  friend,  her  two 
hands  upon  the  mantelpiece,  looking  down  into  the  fire. 
Her  attitude,  moral  and  physical,  was  reflective. 


268  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  if  every  one  got  out  of  the 
theater  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Easton  promised  to  come  and  tell  us,"  answered 
Miss  Winter. 

"  To-night  ? " 

"Yes." 

The  girl  raised  her  head  and  looked  critically  at  her 
own  reflection  in  the  old-fashioned  mirror  above  the  fire- 
place. The  trace  of  tears  had  almost  vanished  from  her 
young  eyes — it  is  only  older  countenances  that  bear  the 
marks  for  long. 

Before  she  moved  again  the  sound  of  cab-wheels  made 
itself  audible  in  the  street,  and  the  vehicle  was  heard  to 
stop  at  the  door. 

Miss  Winter  rose  and  went  to  let  in  the  newcomer. 

It  was  Matthew  Mark  Easton.  He  followed  Miss  Winter 
into  the  dining-room,  walking  lightly — an  unnecessary 
precaution,  for  his  step  was  like  that  of  a  child. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  was  saying,  "  the  etiquette  ob- 
served in  England  on  these  points,  but  I  could  not  resist 
coming  along  to  see  if  you  had  arrived  safely." 

"  Yes — thanks,"  replied  Helen,  to  whom  the  latter  part 
of  the  remark  was  addressed. 

"  No  one  hurt,  I  trust  ?  "  continued  he. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl  gently  ;  "  Mr.  Tyars  is  hurt 
— his  arm  is  broken." 

Easton's  mobile  lips  closed  together  with  a  snap,  be- 
traying the  fact  that  he  had  allowed  himself  the  luxury  of 
an  expletive  in  his  reprehensible  American  way.  He 
turned  aside,  and  walked  backwards  and  forwards  for  a 
few  minutes,  like  a  man  made  restless  by  the  receipt  of 
very  bad  news.  He  glanced  at  the  face  of  each  lady  in 
turn,  and  concluded  that  Helen  was  more  sympathetic 
than  Miss  Winter  in  this  matter.  In  a  moment  he  con- 


A  Midnight  Call.  269 

ceived  the  idea  that  Agnes  Winter  was  by  no  means 
grieved  that  Tyars  should  have  met  with  an  accident. 

He  had  never  considered  her  a  scheming  woman,  but 
his  conception  of  her  character  was  that  she  possessed 
very  decided  opinions  of  her  own,  and  was  quite  capable 
of  acting  up  to  them  against  the  strongest  opposition. 
For  some  reason,  then,  she  was  decidedly  opposed  to  the 
expedition  about  to  be  undertaken  by  Tyars  and  Oswin. 
He  had  always  suspected  opposition  in  that  quarter,  but 
it  had  hitherto  been  passive,  as  feminine  opposition  is  often 
compelled  to  be.  This  deliberate  refusal,  however,  to 
simulate  a  sympathy  she  did  not  feel  was  something  more 
than  passive  in  its  tenor. 

"  Not  a  compound  fracture,  I  hope  ?  "  he  said  tersely, 
while  turning  these  things  over  in  his  mind. 

"  He  thinks  not,"  answered  Helen,  reseating  herself. 

"  Was  he  in  pain  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  girl,  in  a  toneless,  me- 
chanical way,  which  brought  the  quick  monkey-like  eyes 
down  upon  her  like  lightning. 

It  was  the  matter  of  a  second  only.  Like  a  serpent's 
fang  the  man's  keen  eyes  flashed  towards  her  and  away 
again.  The  peculiarly  nervous  face  instantly  assumed 
an  expression  as  near  stolidity  as  could  be  compassed  by 
features  each  and  all  laden  with  an  exceptional  intelli- 
gence. Then  he  turned  away,  and  took  up  a  broken  fan 
lying  on  the  supper-table,  opening  it  tenderly  and  critically. 

But  Miss  Winter  was  as  quick  as  he.  She  knew  then 
that  he  had  guessed.  Whatever  he  might  have  suspected 
before,  she  had  no  doubt  now  that  Matthew  Mark  Easton 
knew  that  Helen  loved  Claud  Tyars. 

"  The  worst  of  it,"  he  broke  out,  with  sudden  airiness, 
"  is  that  there  was  no  fire  at  all.  It  was  extinguished  on 
the  stage.  The  performance  might  have  been  continued." 


270  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  It  only  makes  it  more  horrible,"  said  Miss  Winter ; 
"for  I  suppose  there — were  some  killed  ?  " 

"  That  is  so,"  he  answered.  "  They  took  forty-two 
corpses  out  of  our  box  alone." 

"  I  did  not  know,"  said  Helen,  after  a  painful  pause, 
"  that  it  was  so  bad  as  that." 

Easton  looked  at  her  with  his  quaint  little  wistful 
smile. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  transatlantic  deliberation,  "it 
was  very  bad.  We  were  fortunate.  The  Almighty  has 
something  else  for  us  to  do  yet,  I  surmise." 

"  We  ought  to  be  very  thankful,"  said  the  girl,  simply. 

"  Ya — as ;  and  no  doubt  we  are.     I  am." 

He  gravely  pulled  down  his  waistcoat,  and  stood  with 
his  legs  apart,  looking  down  at  his  own  diminutive  boots. 

The  ladies  noticed  that  he  bore  no  signs  of  his  recent 
experience.  He  had  doubtless  called  in  at  his  club  to 
wash  and  tidy  himself  before  appearing  at  Brook  Street. 
His  left  hand  was  neatly  bandaged  with  white  linen. 

"  Grace,"  he  inquired,  "  is  not  hurt,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not.  His  hands  were  scratched — like 
yours,"  answered  Miss  Winter. 

"  It  comes,"  explained  Easton,  looking  tenderly  at  his 
injured  knuckles,  "  from  hitting  in  the  dark.  I  came  in 
contact  with  some  very  hard  things — possibly  British 
skulls." 

Helen  laughed — rather  too  eagerly  ;  but  Miss  Winter 
was  grave.  Presently  Oswin  Grace  came  in,  opening 
the  front  door  with  his  latchkey.  He  was  greeted  by  an 
interrogatory  "  Well  ?  "  from  Miss  Winter. 

"He  is  all  right,"  he  answered.  "It  was  a  simple 
fracture.  Old  Barker  set  it  very  nicely,  and  I  sent  him 
off  to  his  club  in  a  cab." 

"Then,"  said  Easton,  holding  out  his  hand  to  say 


A  Midnight  Call.  271 

good-by,  "  I  shall  go  and  help  him  into  bed — tuck  him 
in,  and  sing  a  soft  lullaby  over  his  pillow.  Good  night, 
Miss  Winter.  Good  night,  Miss  Grace." 

Miss  Winter  slept  at  Brook  Street  that  night,  according 
to  previous  arrangement.  She  was  soon  left  alone  in  her 
bedroom.  Helen  complained  of  sleepiness,  and,  contrary 
to  her  custom,  did  not  return  to  brush  her  hair  before  her 
friend's  fire — a  mysterious  operation,  entailing  the  loss 
of  an  hour's  sleep,  and  accompanied  by  considerable  con- 
versation. 

The  elder  lady  did  not  appear  to  be  suffering  from 
drowsiness.  Indeed,  she  was  very  wide  awake.  She 
threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  all  dressed,  in  a  ridiculously 
girlish  pose,  and  lay  there  thinking. 

"  If  it  had  been  any  other  man,"  she  meditated  aloud, 
"  I  should  have  said  that  he  could  not  possibly  go  now  ; 
but  with  him  one  cannot  tell.  The  arm  would  hardly  stop 
him,  though  something — else — might.  Poor  Claud  Tyars  ! 
the  naivete  with  which  he  displayed  a  perfect  indifference 
as  to  my  life  was  very  full  of  meaning." 


272  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

FROM  AFAR. 

ONE  morning,  about  a  fortnight  later,  Matthew  Mark 
Easton  received  a  letter  which  caused  him  to  leave  his 
breakfast  untasted  and  drive  off  in  the  first  hansom-cab 
he  could  find  to  Tyars'  club. 

The  waiter  whose  duty  it  was  to  look  after  the  few  resi- 
dent members,  informed  the  American,  whom  he  knew 
well  by  sight,  that  Mr.  Tyars  was  not  down-stairs  yet. 

"  Well,"  replied  Easton,  "  I  guess  I'll  wait  for  him  ; 
in  fact  I  am  going  to  have  breakfast  with  him — a  boiled 
egg  and  two  pieces  of  thin  toast." 

He  was  shown  into  the  room  occupied  by  Tyars,  and 
proceeded  to  make  himself  exceedingly  comfortable,  in  a 
large  armchair,  with  the  morning  newspaper. 

Tyars  was  not  long  in  making  his  appearance — trim, 
upright,  strong  as  usual,  and  conveying  that  unassertive 
sense  of  readiness  for  all  emergencies  which  was  at  times 
almost  aggressive.  He  carried  his  hand  in  the  smallest 
and  most  unobtrusive  sling  allowed  by  the  faculty.  At 
his  heels  walked  Muggins — the  grave,  the  pink-eyed. 
Muggins  was  far  too  gentlemanly  a  dog  to  betray  by  sign 
or  sound  that  he  considered  this  visitor's  behavior  a  trifle 
too  familiar. 

"  Good  morning — captain,"  said  Easton,  cheerily. 
"  Well,  Muggins — I  trust  I  see  you  in  the  enjoyment  of 
health." 


From  Afar.  273 

The  violent  chuck  under  the  chin  with  which  this  hope 
was  emphasized,  received  scant  acknowledgment  from  a 
very  stumpy  tail.  The  truth  was  that  Matthew  Mark 
Easton  was  no  great  favorite  with  Muggins.  He  was  not 
his  sort.  Muggins  had  never  been  a  frivolous  dog,  and 
now  that  puppyhood  was  passed,  he  affected  a  solemnity 
of  demeanor  worthy  of  his  position  in  life.  He  looked  upon 
the  American  as  a  man  lacking  self-respect. 

"I  have  news,"  said  Easton  at  once,  laying  aside  the 
newspaper ;  "  news  from  old  Smith — Pavloski  Smith." 

"  Where  from  ?"  inquired  Tyars,  without  enthusiasm. 

"  From  Tomsk  !  It  is  most  extraordinary  how  these 
fellows  manage  to  elude  the  police.  Here  is  old  Pavloski 
— an  escaped  Siberian  exile — a  man  they  would  give  their 
boots  to  lay  their  hands  on — goes  back  to  Russia,  smug- 
gles himself  across  the  German  frontier,  shows  that  solemn 
face  of  his  unblushingly  in  Petersburg,  and  finally  posts 
off  to  Tomsk  with  a  lot  of  contraband  luggage  as  a  mer- 
chant. I  thought  I  had  a  fair  allowance  of  cheek,  but 
these  political  fellows  are  far  ahead  of  me.  Their  cheek 
and  their  calm  assurance  are  simply  unbounded. 

"  The  worst  of  it,"  said  Tyars,  turning  over  his  letters 
with  small  interest,  "  is  that  the  end  is  always  the  same. 
They  all  overdo  it  sooner  or  later." 

"Yes,"  admitted  the  American,  whose  sensitive  face 
betrayed  a  passing  discomfort;  "  but  it  is  no  good  think- 
ing of  that  now." 

"  Not  a  bit,"  acquiesced  Tyars,  cheerfully.  "  Only  I 
shall  be  rather  surprised  if  I  meet  those  three  men  up 
there.  It  would  be  better  luck  than  one  could  reasonably 
expect." 

"  If  one  of  them  gets  through  with  his  party,  all  con- 
cerned should  be  very  well  pleased  with  themselves," 
said  Easton.     "  Now  listen  to  what  Pavloski  says." 
18 


274  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

He  unfolded  a  letter,  which  was  apparently  a  commer- 
cial communication  written  on  the  ordinary  mail  paper  of 
a  merchant,  and  bearing  the  printed  address  of  an  office 
in  Cronstadt. 

On  the  first  page  was  a  terse  advice,  written  in  a  delicate 
clerkly  hand,  of  the  receipt  by  Hull  steamer  of  a  certain 
number  of  casks  containing  American  apples. 

"  This,"  said  Easton,  "  is  from  our  stout  friend.  He 
has  received  the  block  soups,  and  the  Winchester  cart- 
ridges." 

He  then  opened  the  letter  farther,  and  on  the  two  inside 
pages  displayed  a  closely  written  communication  in  a  pe- 
culiar pink-tinted  ink,  which  had  evidently  been  brought 
to  light  by  some  process,  for  the  paper  was  wrinkled  and 
blistered. 

"  '  I  have,'  "  read  the  American,  slowly,  as  if  decipher- 
ing with  difficulty,  "'reached  Tomsk  without  mishap, 
traveling  with  an  ordinary  civilian  post-pass,  which  is 
very  little  slower  at  this  time  of  year,  as  there  are  plenty 
of  horses.  I  have  bought  a  strong  sledge,  wholly  covered 
in — the  usual  sledge  of  a  merchant  of  fine  goods — and 
instead  of  sleeping  in  the  stations,  usually  lie  down  on  the 
top  of  my  cases  under  the  cover.  I  give  as  reason  for 
this  the  information  that  I  have  many  valuables — watches, 
rings,  trinkets — and  being  a  young  merchant,  cannot  run 
the  risk  of  theft  to  save  my  own  personal  comfort.  I  have 
traveled  day  and  night,  according  to  the  supply  of  horses, 
but  have  always  succeeded  hitherto  in  communicating  with 
those  who  are  to  follow  me.  One  man  on  my  list  was 
not  in  the  prison  indicated — he  is  probably  dead.  I  find 
great  improvements.  Our  organization  is  more  mechan- 
ical, and  not  so  hysterical — this  I  attribute  to  the  dimin- 
ished number  of  female  workers.  All  the  articles  with 
which  your  foresight  provided  me  have  been  useful ;  but 


From  Afar.  275 

the  great  motor  in  Siberia  is  money.  With  the  funds  I 
have  at  my  disposal  I  feel  as  powerful  as  the  Czar.  I  can 
buy  whom  I  like,  and  what  I  like.  My  only  regret  is  that 
the  name  of  C.  T.  has  to  be  suppressed — that  the  hundreds 
of  individuals  who  will  benefit  by  his  grand  generosity  will 
never  know  the  name  of  the  Englishman  who  has  held 
out  his  laden  hands  to  those  groaning  under  the  yoke  of 
a  barbarous  oppression.  When  we  are  all  dead — when 
Russia  is  free,  his  name  will  be  remembered  by  some  one. 
The  watches  will  be  very  useful ;  I  have  sold  two  at  a 
high  price  ;  but  once  beyond  Irkutsk,  and  I  will  sell  or 
give  one  to  the  master  of  each  important  station,  or  to 
the  starosti  of  each  village.  By  this  means  those  who 
follow  me  will  know  that  they  are  on  the  right  track. 
They  cannot  well  stop  at  a  station,  or  halt  in  a  village 
without  being  shown  the  watch,  which  will  tell  them  that 
one  of  us  is  in  front.  I  have  enough  watches  to  lay  a  train 
from  Irkutsk  to  the  spot  where  I  assemble  my  party.  I 
met  my  two  companions  by  appointment  at  the  base  of 
the  Ivan  Veliki  tower  in  the  Kremlin,  and  we  spent 
half  an  hour  in  the  cathedral  together  within  a  musket-shot 
of  the  Czar,  and  under  the  very  nose  of  the  cream  of  his 
police.  Since  then  we  have  not  met,  but  are  each  working 
forward  by  the  prescribed  route  alone.  I  see  great 
changes  here — Russia  is  awakening — she  is  rubbing  her 
eyes.  God  keep  you  all  three  ! '  " 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  indicated  by  a  little  jerk  of  the 
head  that  the  letter  was  finished.  Then  after  looking  at 
it  curiously  for  a  moment,  he  folded  it  and  put  it  away  in 
his  pocket. 

"  Old  Smith,"  he  said,  "  waxes  quite  poetic  at  times." 

"Yes,"  answered  Tyars,  pouring  out  his  coffee,  "  but 
there  is  a  keen  business  man  behind  the  poetry." 

"One,"  observed  Easton  in  his  terse  way,  "of  the 


276  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

sharpest  needles  in  Russia,  and  quite  the  sharpest  in 
Siberia  at  the  present  moment." 

"  He  will  need  to  be  ;  though  I  think  that  the  worst  of 
his  journey  is  over.  The  cream  is,  as  he  says,  at  Moscow. 
Once  beyond  Nijni  he  will  find  milk,then  milk-and-water, 
and  finally  beyond  Irkutsk  the  thinnest  water.  The  of- 
ficial intellect  in  Siberia  is  not  of  a  brilliant  description. 
Pavloski  can  outwit  every  gendarme  or  Cossack  com- 
mandant he  meets,  and  once  out  of  Irkutsk  they  need  not 
fear  the  law.  They  will  only  have  Nature  to  compete 
with,  and  Nature  always  gives  fair  play.  When  they 
have  assembled  they  will  retreat  north  like  an  organized 
army  before  a  rabble,  for  there  are  not  enough  Cossacks 
and  gendarmes  in  Northern  Siberia  to  form  anything  like 
an  efficient  corps  of  pursuit.  They  may  follow,  but  I  shall 
have  the  fugitives  on  board  and  away  long  before  they 
reach  the  seaboard." 

"  How  many  are  there  in  Yakutsk  ?  " 

"  Two  thousand  altogether,  soldiers  and  Cossacks. 
They  have  no  means  of  transport  and  no  commissariat 
corps.  By  the  time  that  the  news  travels  south  to 
Yakutsk,  that  there  is  a  body  of  supposed  exiles  to  the 
north,  our  men  will  have  gained  such  an  advantage  that 
pursuit  would  be  absurd." 

"  It  seems,"  replied  Easton,  "so  very  simple,  that  I 
wonder  no  one  has  tried  it  before." 

At  this  moment  the  waiter  entered  the  room  with  sev- 
eral hot  dishes,  but  the  two  men  went  on  discussing 
openly  the  question  mooted.  Club-waiters  are  the  near- 
est approach  to  a  human  machine  that  modern  civilization 
has  yet  produced. 

"  Simply  because  no  one  has  had  the  money.  I  know 
several  whaling  captains  who  would  be  ready  enough  to 
try,  provided  they  were  paid  !  The  worst  danger  was 


From  Afar.  277 

the  chance  of  the  three  men  being  captured  as  soon  as 
they  entered  Russia.  They  are  now  at  their  posts  in 
Siberia.  In  May  they  meet  surreptitiously  on  the  south- 
ern slope  of  the  Verkoianiska,  cross  the  mountains,  and 
they  are  safe.  The  three  leaders  will  then  be  together, 
and  they  will  retreat  north  as  arranged,  scaring  the  Yam- 
schicks  into  obedience,  and  taking  all  the  post-deer  and 
dogs  with  them,  so  that  an  immediate  pursuit  will  be  im- 
possible. I  think,"  added  the  organizer  of  this  extraor- 
dinary plot,  "  that  we  shall  succeed." 

Easton  was  silent.  His  boiled  egg  had  arrived,  and  his 
keen  little  face  was  screwed  up  into  earnest  inquiry  as  he 
gently  broke  the  shell  with  a  spoon.  He  was  a  strange 
mixture  of  the  trivial  and  the  great,  this  sharp-witted 
American ;  but  he  was  intensely  conscious  of  his  own 
shallowness.  He  could  touch  great  things,  but  he  could 
not  grasp  them  ;  he  could  give  attention  to  trifles,  but  he 
could  not  allot  to  them  just  that  modicum  of  thought  which 
would  suffice.  In  the  position  which  he  had  occupied 
during  the  last  two  months,  namely,  the  chief  superintend- 
ent of  trifles,  he  was  excellent.  But  without  the  direct- 
ing control  of  Claud  Tyars  he  would  probably  have  given 
all  his  attention  to  small  things,  neglecting  or  fearing  to 
touch  the  great.  He  would  have  regarded  the  pence  too 
closely,  failing  to  make  sure  that  the  pounds  were  safe. 
There  was  no  lack  of  courage,  but  a  distinct  want  of 
power,  and  this  deficiency  became  singularly  apparent  in 
intercourse  with  Claud  Tyars. 

We  very  often  meet  men  in  the  world  who  have  done 
one  thing ;  conceived  some  great  thought,  or  invented  one 
great  combination — say  a  soda-water  cork.  Upon  that 
one  basis  they  seem  to  rest  for  the  remainder  of  their 
days.  He  does  not  manufacture  the  soda-water  cork,  he 
does  not  even  attend  to  the  advertisement  of  it ;  but  he 


278  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

invented  it  long  years  back  in  the  recesses  of  a  youth 
which  can  hardly  have  been  brilliant.  One  is  conscious 
that  he  is  a  great  man,  or  that  he  should  be  such,  and  yet 
there  is  a  wondering  desire  to  know  why  he  does  not  get 
up  and  invent  something  else — a  machine  to  cut  and  read 
magazines,  or  something  equally  in  demand. 

This  was  to  some  extent  the  position  of  Matthew  Mark 
Easton  at  the  beginning  of  the  year  which  has  been 
succeeded  by  four.  He  had  conceived  the  idea  which 
Claud  Tyars  and  his  intrepid  colleagues  had  now  quite 
wrested  from  his  grasp.  The  initial  conception  had  so 
grown  and  expanded,  had  gathered  in  here  and  shot  out 
there,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  render  it  quite  strange  in  the 
eyes  of  its  own  father. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  position,  but  the  American  faced 
it  pluckily.  He  was  to  some  extent  an  imaginative  little 
man — had  been  an  imaginative  boy.  He  had  dreamed 
dreams  just  as  some  others  have  dreamed  them.  He  had 
nourished  and  fostered  great  ambitions — just  as  you,  my 
good  friend,  may  have  done — just  as  a  poor  scribbler  may 
have  done.  We  confess  nothing,  mind  you  !  but  there 
may  have  been  a  time  .  .  .  And  now  Easton  had  met  a  man, 
made  a  friend  of  a  man,  who  calmly  showed  him  that  those 
same  dreams  were  wofully  hollow.  It  is  a  strange  fatuity, 
that  habit  of  dreaming.  At  the  very  threshold  of  life  we 
ought  by  rights  to  recognize  what  lies  before  us.  At  the 
very  earliest  school  we  attend  we  probably  find  that  a  large 
portion  of  our  companions  are  infinitely  cleverer  than  our- 
selves ;  in  the  playground,  on  football  or  cricket  field,  we 
are  bound  to  realize  that  there  are  better  players  than  our- 
selves. And  so  on,  as  we  reach  out  into  the  world.  We 
find  better  shots,  better  dancers,  better  oars,  better  seats 
in  the  saddle  ;  and  perhaps  better  thinkers,  better  writers, 
better  workers,  better  wooers.  But — does  all  this  shake 


From  Afar.  279 

that  strange,  deep-rooted  confidence  in  self  ?  Does  it 
open  our  eyes  to  the  melancholy  fact  that  we  are  not  only 
like  other  people,  but  inferior  to  them  ?  Does  it,  I  ask  in 
all  gravity,  make  you  and  me  acknowledge  that  this  life 
that  we  are  leading  now  is,  humanly  speaking,  perma- 
nent ;  that  it  is  the  only  life  we  shall  ever  have,  and  that 
it  is  after  all  rather  a  sorry  business  ?  No.  We  go  on  in 
a  futile  way,  building  up  grand  dreams  beneath  our  gray 
hairs,  vainly  looking  to  that  day  when  we  shall  be  blest, 
when  we  shall  be  celebrated,  and  recognized  as  the  great 
men  that  we  are.  And  yet  at  times  there  comes  a  fleet- 
ing glimpse  of  the  reality.  Some  one  passes  us  in  the 
race,  or  does  something  that  we  should  like  to  have  done, 
and  for  a  moment  our  hearts  are  pressed  down  with  the 
uncomfortable  feeling  of  being  left  behind. 

This  was  precisely  the  feeling  which  had  stolen  into  the 
cheery  heart  of  Matthew  Mark  Easton  while  he  opened 
his  egg  with  that  singular  attention  which  has  been 
previously  indicated.  When  I  am  a  ghost,  endowed 
with  the  power  of  looking  into  men's  minds,  I  shall  not 
peer  though  the  grave  eyes,  but  through  the  smiling.  I 
shall  not  flit  about  among  those  who  weep,  but  among 
such  as  will  not  weep  because  they  are  too  courageous. 

"  Of  course,  old  man,"  said  Easton,  "you — we  shall 
succeed.  Pass  the  salt,  please." 

Nothing  escaped  his  keen  observation.  He  knew  well 
enough  that  he  could  not  play  a  greater  part,  and  yet 
there  had  been  placed  in  his  frail  frame  that  longing  for 
action  felt  at  one  time  or  other  by  all  men  worth  their  salt. 
He  did  not  glance  enviously  at  his  friend's  huge  limbs  and 
quick  strength  of  carriage,  for  he  was  accustomed  to  it. 
He  was  accustomed  to  his  own  incapacity. 

It  is  probable  that  Claud  Tyars  knew  something  of  his 
friend's  feelings  upon  this  subject,  for  he  never  made  ref- 


280  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

erence  to  his  own  share  of  the  exploit  beyond  what  was 
absolutely  necessary.  Whatever  he  may  have  felt,  he 
never  exulted  openly  in  the  coming  dangers  by  sea  and 
ice.  Their  conversation  was  chiefly  respecting  the  prog- 
ress of  the  three  adventurous  Russians  headed  by  Ser- 
gius  Pavloski  and  the  probabilities  of  their  failure  or  suc- 
cess. It  was  a  safe  subject ;  for  neither  Claud  Tyars  nor 
Matthew  Mark  Easton  could  have  attempted  what  these 
men  were  undertaking. 


An  Overture.  281 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

AN    OVERTURE. 

THERE  are  some — indeed  many — people  who  shun 
the  world  because  they  fear  it.  Not  being  sure  of  its 
admiration  they  prefer  to  avoid  the  risk  of  earning  its 
contempt.  But  there  are  others  who  withdraw  them- 
selves because  there  exists  in  their  hearts  an  honest  and 
unobtrusive  contempt  for  the  opinion  of  that  generality 
which  is  usually  called  "the  world."  Of  these  latter 
was  Claud  Tyars,  and  it  must  be  allowed  that  his  opinion 
was  in  no  way  aggressive  or  offensive.  He  despised  the 
generality  of  his  fellow-men,  but  he  was  quite  unconscious 
of  so  doing.  He  had  lived  his  short  life  among  men  of  a 
race  singularly  unaffected  by  the  blame  or  praise  of  the 
world — the  British  upper  middle-class.  In  most  moral 
virtues  or  faults  it  is  merely  a  question  of  degree,  and  it 
is  therefore  comprehensible  that  Claud  Tyars  should  be 
unaware  of  the  fact  that  he  carried  the  peculiarity  of  his 
contemporaries  to  an  excess. 

It  was  rtow  a  well-known  topic  of  the  day  that  he  was 
fitting  up  an  Arctic  expedition,  and  the  society  papers  had 
taken  good  care  to  make  the  most  of  the  terrible  defense 
of  the  stage-box  in  the  Epic  Theater  on  the  historical 
night  of  the  panic.  The  majority  of  his  friends  knew  that 
his  arm  had  been  broken  in  that  struggle  for  life,  and  his 
refusal  of  all  invitations  was  therefore  a  matter  of  small 
surprise. 


282  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

It  seemed  hardly  natural  for  a  man  of  his  character 
to  fear  a  little  unsought  publicity,  but  this  excuse  he 
invariably  put  forward  when  rallied  by  his  friends  for 
unsociability. 

Easton  knew  no  more  than  the  rest  of  the  world  why 
Tyars  so  suddenly  withdrew  himself  from  all  social  inter- 
course. They  had  moved  in  the  same  circles  to  a  some- 
what limited  extent,  and  had  never  been  coupled  as  men 
likely  to  be  found  together.  It  was  only  by  degrees, 
therefore,  that  he  learnt  of  Tyars'  defection  from  the 
duties  of  a  man  placed  in  the  midst  of  the  most  thoroughly 
sociable  community  in  the  world.  From  Miss  Winter, 
Easton  learnt  that  Tyars  had  never  even  called  upon  her 
or  at  Brook  Street,  to  inquire  whether  any  after-effects 
had  shown  themselves  since  the  memorable  evening  of 
the  fire. 

The  relationship  between  the  two  men  was  just  one 
of  those  understandings  which  are  impossible  between 
women,  and  common  enough  among  their  husbands, 
brothers,  and  sons.  A  friendship  between  women  is 
usually  comprehensive — it  embraces  the  lives  of  both 
from  morning  till  night  without  reservation.  They  are 
friends  indoors,  in  their  bedrooms  ;  at  luncheon,  at  din- 
ner, at  dances,  and  between  those  functions.  If  they 
meet  at  night  they  are  straightway  consumed  with  a 
desire  to  meet  in  the  morning.  They  want  to  shop  to- 
gether, to  lunch  together,  and  to  take  each  other  up-stairs 
to  see  their  new  hats.  If  they  are  unmarried  they  talk 
about  young  men  and  the  millinery  means  of  fascinating 
the  same ;  if  they  are  married  they  discuss  the  weak- 
nesses, physical  or  mental,  of  their  husbands,  and  the 
best  treatment  for  same.  They  do  not  even  stop  there, 
but  go  on  to  compare  cooks,  and  even  exchange  a  receipt 
or  two. 


An  Overture.  283 

Now  with  men  it  is  different.  We  have  out-door  friends 
and  in-door  friends.  Old  March  Brown,  for  instance,  is  a 
first-rate  fellow,  an  excellent  sportsman,  the  keenest 
fisherman  that  ever  wet  a  wader ;  but  in  a  ballroom  he 
is  no  friend  of  mine — I  hate  him  !  We  have  fished  to- 
gether in  Norway  and  Greenland,  but  I  do  not  even  know 
his  wife's  name,  nor  his  cook's  besetting  sin. 

Then  there  is  young  Adonis  Smiler.  He 'is  usually  the 
best  dancer  in  the  room  ;  it  is  a  pleasure  to  take  him  out 
as  one's  friend.  He  always  gives  satisfaction  to  his  hos- 
tess, and  several  freshly-bloomed  young  ladies  invariably 
think  of  him  the  next  morning.  But  because  we  take 
each  other  out  to  dances,  Smiler  does  not,  any  more  than 
I,  propose  spending  our  autumn  holiday  together.  No ; 
Smiler  is  a  London  friend,  and  nothing  else — he  is  an 
evening  friend.  By  daylight  he  is  an  effeminate  dandy, 
and  I  should  not  think  of  being  on  the  same  moor  as 
Smiler  were  he  in  the  possession  of  a  gun. 

A  friend  of  mine  came  in  to  see  me  a  few  minutes  ago, 
interrupting  the  flow  of  these  remarkable  observations. 
For  five  years  he  has  been  diametrically  under  my  feet ; 
we  have  always  kept  half  a  world  between  us,  and  we 
have  never  thought  of  corresponding.  He  is  an  antipo- 
dean friend,  and  we  have  become  quite  accustomed  to 
thinking  of  each  other  as  in  the  antipodes.  In  fact,  each 
formed  part  of  the  other's  antipodes.  We  took  up  the 
same  questions  that  we  left  unsettled  five  years  ago,  and 
so  far  as  I  could  gather,  the  friendship  has  in  no  way 
cooled,  though  we  have  never  met  twice  in  the  same  part 
of  the  world. 

In  a  word,  the  friendship  of  women  means  the  posses- 
sion of  many,  if  not  all,  interests  in  common  ;  while  men 
can  build  up  the  enduring  fabric  upon  the  basis  of  one 
mutual  interest  only. 


284  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  possessed  mental  energy  of  a 
conceptive  order ;  Claud  Tyars  was  a  healthy  Hercules, 
his  body  longed  for  work.  They  were  brought  together 
by  that  vague  influence  we  call  Chance,  and  they  found 
a  common  interest  at  once.  But  their  friendship,  which 
lasted  as  long  as  human  friendships  can  last,  was  never 
general.  They  never  knew  much  of  each  other's  lives. 
The  great  absorbing  interest  of  their  existence  during 
these  years  had  never  flagged ;  there  had  always  been 
some  point  or  another  requiring  instant  discussion,  and 
they  never  found  time  to  talk  of  themselves  or  of  each 
other. 

The  Americans  are  the  most  independent  people  of  the 
world.  They  have  learnt  more  thoroughly  than  any 
other  race  the  great  lesson  that  whatever  may  be  done 
for  us  in  the  hereafter  we  must  look  after  ourselves  now. 
They  expect  no  help  and  they  ask  none.  Easton  was  a 
true  American  in  his  social  proclivities ;  he  was  not  the 
man  to  overstep  those  tacit  boundaries  by  which  men's 
friendships  are  confined.  So  long  as  things  went  on  satis- 
factorily, so  long  as  Tyars  attended  to  the  outfit  of  ship 
and  crew,  he  was  free  to  live  where  he  liked  and  how  he 
liked. 

Oswin  Grace  was  naturally  brought  into  daily  com- 
munication with  Tyars,  but  they  met  at  the  docks,  usually 
on  board  their  vessel,  and  at  evening  they  parted  with- 
out question  of  meeting  later.  The  young  officer,  accus- 
tomed as  he  was  to  obedience,  had  by  this  time  quite 
fallen  under  the  influence  of  his  chief,  and  their  relation- 
ship towards  each  other  was  therefore  slightly  altered. 

Miss  Winter,  however,  was  a  woman  of  resource.  For 
reasons  of  her  own  she  determined  to  bring  Claud  Tyars 
out  of  his  shell.  It  was  nothing  to  her  that  the  exploring 
vessel  should  be  out  of  dry-dock  and  almost  ready  for  sea, 


An  Overture.  285 

her  crew  engaged,  her  stores  on  board.  She  had  one 
card  left,  and  she  played  it  with  that  calm  assurance  which 
follows  on  skilful  courage.  And  so  it  came  about  that 
Muggins  set  up  a  great  barking,  and  displayed  a  deter- 
mination to  repel  or  die,  one  morning  when  breakfast  had 
been  cleared  away  by  the  lightning-fingered  club-waiter. 

The  diminutive  buttons  attached  to  the  hall-door 
knocked,  entered,  and  stood  aside  in  three  movements, 
like  the  soldier's  son  that  he  was. 

"  Admiral  Grace — sir/'  he  announced,  clippingly. 

Then  Muggins,  obeying  one  terse  word,  retired  under 
the  armchair  nearest  to  the  fire. 

The  admiral  entered  with  some  dignity  and  laid  his 
stick  and  hat  upon  the  table ;  then  he  turned  round  and 
glared  at  the  button-boy,  causing  the  door  to  be  shut 
precipitately. 

"  Good  morning,  sir !  "  said  Tyars,  pleasantly.  He 
was  standing,  but  did  not  offer  his  hand.  He  had  a  sin- 
gular and  almost  foreign  way  of  avoiding  the  practise  of 
shaking  hands,  and  now  that  his  right  arm  was  disabled 
he  never  offered  his  left. 

The  admiral  looked  at  him,  and  then  held  out  his  hand 
very  deliberately,  so  that  no  mistake  could  be  made. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said  ;  "  your  hand." 

He  took  the  reluctant  fingers  held  out,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, rather  awkwardly,  in  a  good  hearty,  old-fashioned 

grip- 

"  I  came,"  said  the  old  gentleman  so  concisely  that 
Tyars  almost  wondered  whether  he  had  asked  aloud  the 
question  that  was  in  his  mind,  "  to  your  club  because  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you." 

He  stopped,  visibly  embarrassed,  in  a  bluff,  undisguised 
manner  ;  his  kindly  but  firm  lips  moved  as  if  framing 
tentative  words. 


286  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  It  is,"  Tyars  hastened  to  say,  "a  beastly  morning. 
I  hope  you  have  not  got  wet." 

"  Thanks,  no  ;  I  am  not  afraid  of  a  little  clean  water." 
He  pulled  himself  up  and  looked  somewhat  pugnacious. 
"  I  came  about  a  matter  which — I  have  something  to  say 
which  is  not  easy  for  an  old  fellow  to  say  to  a  young 
one." 

"  Oh  !  "  Tyars  drew  forward  a  chair  in  a  pleasant  and 
comfortable  way — it  was,  by  the  way,  a  remarkably  com- 
fortable chair.  "  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  Put  your  boots 
on  the  fender,  your  right  foot  is  wet,  these  roads  are  so 
badly  kept." 

"  D — n  it,  sir,"  said  the  admiral,  without  accepting  the 
chair,  "  I  didn't  come  here  to  talk  about  my  boots." 

Tyars  looked  at  him  in  his  large  placid  way — as  one 
sees  a  huge  Newfoundland  look  at  a  fox-terrier.  He 
made  no  further  attempt  to  stave  it  off,  for  he  knew  that 
it  had  come.  He  was  a  man  who  hated  thanks  and  apol- 
ogies, and  never  learnt  to  receive  them  graciously. 

And  so  they  stood  opposite  to  each  other — two  typical 
Englishmen — an  old  and  a  young  sailor.  Not  poetical,  nor 
romantic,  nor  highly  intellectual — you  are  not  asked  to 
imagine  that.  But — honest!  Honest  and  strong.  Surely 
the  Creator  meant  men  to  be  both  these  ;  for  if  they  are, 
no  woman  need  fear  to  love  them. 

"  I  came,"  said  the  old  mariner,  fixing  his  solemn  gray 
eyes  upon  his  companion's  face,  "to  ask  you  to  accept 
an  apology.  If  I  do  it  badly  it  is  because  I  have  had  no 
practise  at  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Please,"  interrupted  Tyars,  gravely,  "do  not  say 
anything  more.  There  must  be  some  mistake.  I  know 
of  nothing  that  could  require  an  apology,  and  I  am  like 
yourself — I  know  nothing  of  such  matters.  Won't  you 
sit  down  ?  " 


An  Overture.  287 

This  time  the  admiral  accepted.  He  sat  squarely  down, 
undeterred  ;  he  was  fully  bent  upon  hammering  out  what 
he  considered  his  dutiful  apology. 

"It  is,"  he  said,  in  a  more  conversational  manner, 
"  like  this.  When  you  first  came  home,  and  Oswin 
brought  you  in  to  dinner,  I  took  a  dislike  to  you.  I — 
well,  I  thought  you  were  a  humbug — what  the  Frenchmen 
call  a  poseur.  Perhaps  I  was  a  bit  jealous  about  that  mer- 
chantman you  brought  home — I  would  rather  have  had 
my  boy  commanding  her,  and  you  playing  second  fiddle. 
Then  there  is  another  thing.  I  am  afraid  I  am  a  little 
jealous  of  all  young  fellows  who  come  to  my  house  and 
cut  an  old  fogey  out ;  you  understand  ?  My  girl — my 
little  girl,  Helen." 

"Yes,"  answered  Tyars,  slowly,  "  I  understand." 

"  I  think  a  lot  of  her,"  said  the  old  fellow,  with  an  apol- 
ogetic laugh,  "and  I  am  always  imagining  that  every 
man  who  sees  her  is  going  to  fall  in  love  with  her. 
Ha  !  ha ! " 

"  Ha  !  ha!  "  echoed  Tyars,  with  sudden  gaiety. 

"  Stupid  of  me,"  added  the  admiral,  "  but  I  can't  help 
it,  you  know  !  " 

"Ha!  ha!  "  repeated  Claud  Tyars,  in  identical 
tones. 

"Well,"  continued  Admiral  Grace,  settling  himself 
more  comfortably  in  the  large  chair,  "  it  all  comes  to  this. 
I  have  found  out  my  mistake  all  round,  and  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  that  I  consider  you  are  a  gentleman  and  a  sailor,  and 
I  am  proud  to  know  you." 

He  pulled  out  his  cuffs,  and  emitted  a  long  breath  of 
relief.  Like  a  great  schoolboy,  he  had  gravely  made  up 
his  mind  to  say  this  thing,  and  now  that  it  was  over  he  was 
fairly  well  pleased  with  the  manner  in  which  he  had  man- 
aged to  say  it. 


288  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  replied  Tyars, 
rather  lamely,  for  he  was  a  poor  hand  at  turning  glib 
phrases.  "  By  your  own  showing,  however,  no  apology 
was  necessary.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  thoughts,  and 
we  are  all  free  to  think  what  we  like." 

"Then,"  said  the  old  gentleman  with  a  chuckle,  "I 
did  not  show  my  dislike  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  noticed,"  replied  Tyars.  He  wisely  re- 
frained from  adding  that  this  might  be  because  he  had 
never  taken  the  trouble  to  look. 

"  That's  all  right.  And  now,  my  boy,  I  want  to  thank 
you  for  your  bravery  and  coolness  the  other  night.  From 
what  I  hear,  you  undoubtedly  saved  my  little  girl's  life — 
if  not  the -lives  of  the  whole  party.  It  quite  turned  the 
tables  on  me.  It  was  quite  contrary  to  what  I  was  think- 
ing of  you,  you  see.  That  broken  arm  too— I  hope  you 
did  it  saving  Helen." 

"I  did,"  answered  the  young  fellow,  with  a  quick, 
unnatural  laugh  ;  "  but  why  do  you  hope  that  ?  " 

"  Because,"  replied  Admiral  Grace,  gravely,  "  it  must 
be  much  more  satisfactory  to  an  English  sailor  to  think 
that  he  carried  away  a  spar  in  saving  another  life  than  his 
own — the  life  of  a  woman  and  a  pretty  girl  too.  Helen 
wants  to  thank  you  herself,  which  she  somehow  forgot  to 
do.  Will  you  come  and  dine  one  night,  and  give  her  a 
chance  ?  Name  your  own  night." 

Claud  Tyars  did  not  seem  to  hesitate.  He  bowed 
gravely,  while  his  beard  and  mustache  moved  as  if  he 
were  biting  his  lip  in  order  to  control  some  passing 
emotion. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  "  very  much  ;  but  I  am  afraid 
I  must  refuse.  I  am  so  busy  that  I  have  entirely  given 
up  going  out." 

"  As  you  like,"   snapped  the   admiral,  after  a   little 


An  Overture.  289 

pause.  He  was  vexed,  and  did  not  care  to  disguise  it. 
He  naturally  concluded  that  Tyars  bore  him  ill-feeling 
despite  the  apology  which  had  been  so  difficult  for  him  to 
make.  It  was  no  hard  matter  to  divine  this  from  the 
proud  old  man's  sudden  hauteur  of  manner ;  and  Claud 
Tyars  doubtless  saw  it,  for  his  unobtrusive  gaze  had 
never  left  his  companion's  face.  It  was  rather  strange 
that  he  did  not  hasten  to  undeceive  his  visitor,  to  protest 
that  nothing  could  have  given  him  greater  pleasure  than 
to  dine  at  Brook  Street.  He  might  easily  have  put  for- 
ward another  excuse.  It  was  a  matter  requiring  very 
little  to  smooth  it,  but  the  young  Englishman  deliberately 
left  it  as  it  was — left  his  refusal  in  all  its  curt  formality  for 
the  old  martinet  to  put  in  his  pipe  and  smoke  at  leisure. 

He  stood  where  he  had  stood  during  the  entire  inter- 
view, with  his  one  able  hand  resting  on  the  back  of  a 
chair.  His  attitude  and  expression  were  distinctly  courte- 
ous, and — nothing  more.  It  is,  one  finds,  these  grave 
men  who  are  so  difficult  to  read.  One  may  hide  many 
things,  many  sorrows  and  loves  and  hatreds  behind  a 
ready  smile  ;  but  a  pleasant,  dense  gravity  is  much  more 
impenetrable. 

Admiral  Grace  rose,  gave  one  quick  glance  at  his  com- 
panion's face,  and  then  took  up  his  hat  and  stick. 

"  I  am  due  at  the  Admiralty,"  he  said.  "  Good  morn- 
ing." 

Tyars  followed  him  towards  the  door,  gravely  respect- 
ful. He  opened  the  door  and  followed  him  down  the 
thickly-carpeted  stairs.  Half-way  the  old  man  stopped. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  raising  his  stick,  "  Miss  Win- 
ter asked  me  to  deliver  a  message.  She  has  found  a  berth 
for  a  protege  of  yours,  the  son  of  your  carpenter.  She 
will  be  in  at  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow  morning  if  you  can 
find  time  to  call  and  see  her  about  it." 
«9 


290  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  Thank  you.     I  will  try  to  do  so." 

"Good  morning." 

"  Good  morning." 

And  the  old  fellow  stumped  out  into  the  sunny  street. 
A  woman  would  have  taken  his  last  words  as  a  confession 
that  he  had  been  sent  by  Miss  Winter — some  men  might 
have  read  it  so,  but  Claud  Tyars  was  not  of  these. 


Trapped.  291 


CHAPTER  XXX. 
TRAPPED. 

THE  next  morning  he  despatched  his  laborious  corre- 
spondence as  quickly  as  a  cramped  left  hand  would  allow. 
He  was  not  dressed  in  the  tar-stained  old  suit  donned  for 
dock-work,  but  in  blue  serge. 

Armed  with  a  cigar  to  keep  out  the  morning  coolness, 
he  set  off  westward  at  a  swinging  pace,  and  deliberately 
walked  into  the  trap  set  for  him  by  Miss  Winter.  This 
was  so  simple,  and  it  succeeded  so  smoothly,  that  the 
lady  whose  well-intentioned  deceit  it  was  stood  almost 
breathless  in  her  own  bedroom,  pressing  her  hand  to  her 
breast  and  wondering  whether  she  should  laugh  or  cry. 

The  maid  answering  his  summons  swung  the  door  so 
wide  open  as  to  leave  no  doubt  of  his  welcome  and  ex- 
pectation. Miss  Winter  was  in,  would  he  step  up-stairs  ? 
This  he  did  with  rather  less  agility  than  when  he  had 
possessed  two  arms  to  swing.  He  was  shown  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  for  a  moment  imagined  himself  alone. 
Then  he  was  conscious  of  a  sound  of  smooth  dress  material, 
and  a  young  lady  rose  from  the  music-stool,  partially  con- 
cealed by  the  piano  placed  cornerwise  near  the  window. 
It  was  a  gloomy  morning,  and  the  lady  stood  with  her 
back  towards  the  light,  and  her  face  consequently  in  the 
shadow.  But  Tyars  saw  at  once  that  this  was  not  Agnes 
Winter ;  indeed  the  sight  (as  pleasant  a  one  as  any  man 
could  wish  to  look  upon)  brought  a  quick  contraction  of 


292  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

pain  to  eyes  and  lips.  He  knew  only  too  well  every 
sweet  curve  and  outline  of  head  and  form  placed  in  grace- 
ful silhouette  against  the  lace  curtains. 

They  knew  that  they  had  been  both  tricked,  and  the 
sudden  knowledge  of  it  seemed  to  sweep  all  social  formula 
away,  for  they  never  greeted  each  other.  Something  in 
the  girl's  attitude  (for  he  could  not  see  her  glowing  eyes) 
told  the  man  then  that  he  had  not  this  thing  to  bear  alone. 
His  sorrow  was  hers  ;  that  which  weighed  upon  his  broad 
back  almost  crushed  her  slight  young  shoulders  beneath 
its  weight.  This  great  heavenly  light,  this  opaque  dark- 
ness, had  crept  into  her  heart  as  into  his,  against  the 
defense  of  a  stubborn  will.  It  was  so  new  to  both,  so 
utterly  surprising,  so  completely  unlocked  for,  that  both 
alike  were  dazed.  Since  its  advent,  both  had  walked  on 
with  uncertain  steps,  staggering  vaguely  beneath  a  new 
and  wholly  bewildering  responsibility ;  something  that 
seemed  to  have  no  beginning  and  no  end  on  earth  ;  some- 
thing that  tugged  at  the  heart  and  cast  a  great  veil  of  in- 
difference over  all  pleasures  and  all  trivial  occupations  ; 
something  that  brings  our  every-day  life  suddenly  forward 
like  a  cunning  stage-light  cast  from  the  wings,  and  builds 
up  behind  the  daily  round  of  toil  and  pleasure  a  vague 
shimmering  perspective  of  which  yon  dimmest  distance  is 
Heaven — and  nothing  else. 

When  a  strong  man  gets  a  fever,  the  doctor  shakes  his 
head  :  when  a  strong  heart  has  this  pain  it  is  pain  indeed. 

At  last  the  girl  moved.  She  came  towards  him,  only  a 
few  paces,  and  then  stopped.  She  had  emerged  from  the 
shadow,  and  the  whiteness  of  her  face  struck  him  like  a 
blow. 

"  Agnes, "she  said,  steadily,  "  has  just  gone  up-stairs." 

He  nodded  his  head  in  a  sharp,  comprehensive  way 
which  had  been  acquired  at  sea. 


Trapped.  293 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  find  you  here,"  was  his  reply,  less 
inconsequent  than  might  at  first  appear. 

She  crossed  the  room,  passing  close  by  him,  so  that  a 
breath  of  cool  air  reached  him,  and  went  towards  the 
mantelpiece.  Her  intention  was  evidently  to  ring  the 
bell,  but  her  strength  of  purpose  seemed  to  fail  her  at  the 
moment,  and  she  stood  undecided  upon  the  white  fur 
hearthrug  with  her  back  turned  towards  him. 

"  Had  you  known — ?  "  she  began. 

"I  think,"  he  completed,  "that  I  should  not  have 
come." 

Her  eyelids  quivered  for  a  second,  and  the  faintest  sug- 
gestion of  a  very  sad  smile  flickered  across  her  lips.  He  did 
not  know  that  he  was  making  matters  worse,  making  her 
burden  doubly  heavy.  He  did  not  know  that  this  very 
strength  of  hisiwas  what  she  loved.  He  was  very  far 
from  suspecting  that  she  had  foreseen  his  answer  before  she 
asked  the  strange  question.  He  would  have  been  intensely 
surprised  to  learn  that,  although  her  back  was  turned 
towards  him,  she  saw  his  attitude,  the  quiescent  strength 
of  each  limb  (denoting  subtly  the  inner  strength  of  the 
soul)  as  he  stood  upright,  patient,  and  gentle,  tearing  out 
his  iron  heart  and  trampling  it  underfoot.  He  never  saw 
the  shadowy  little  smile,  nor  knew  its  pathetic  meaning. 

And  so  he  kept  his  secret,  he  held  his  peace  despite  a 
gnawing  temptation  to  speak.  He  allowed  her  to  con- 
tinue thinking,  if  so  indeed  she  thought,  that  he  was 
sacrificing  her  to  his  own  ambition,  as  Miss  Winter  honestly 
believed.  He  never  told  her  that  he  was  compelled  to 
carry  out  his  perilous  scheme  because  he  was  bound  in 
honor.  It  was  high-flown,  unpractical,  Quixotic,  if  you 
wish.  But — that  same  old  Don.  Was  he  a  buffoon  or  a 
hero  ?  Forsooth,  some  of  us  hardly  know.  This  world 
of  ours  would  be  a  sorry  place  were  we  all  practical,  and 


294  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

did  we  all  fly  low.  And  I  venture  to  think  that  this  man 
with  whom  we  deai  was  no  exception — there  are  others 
like  him.  That  he  is  no  creature  of  the  imagination,  but 
an  honest  nineteenth-century  Englishman,  who  paid  the 
income-tax,  and  sometimes  wore  a  silk  hat,  can  easily  be 
ascertained,  for  these  events  are  but  five  years  old,  and 
there  are  men  in  many  London  club-rooms  to-day  who 
will  tell  you  of  Claud  Tyars.  It  is  just  because  he  is  of 
our  own  time  that  I  have  attempted  to  string  together  this 
record  in  the  hope  that  some  may  read  it  and  gather  from 
the  study  a  little  pride  in  that  they  claim  with  such  as  he 
a  joint  nationality  and  a  co-inheritance  of  those  strong 
plain  virtues  which  made,  in  days  gone  by,  a  great  nation 
out  of  a  little  island. 

That  singular  sense  of  familiarity  seemed  to  have  come 
to  them  again,  as  it  had  come  once  before.  There  was 
no  explanation,  and  they  yet  understood  each  other  well 
enough.  It  seemed  as  if  they  had  known  each  other  all 
their  lives,  almost  as  if  they  had  met  in  some  other  life. 
She  turned  and  looked  across  the  room  at  him  with  drawn 
and  weary  eyes  in  which  there  was  yet  a  smile  as  if  to  tell 
him  that  she  was  strong,  that  he  need  not  fear  for  her. 
And  he  met  her  gaze  with  that  self-suppressing  gravity. 
He  had  set  bounds  for  himself,  and  beyond  these  he  would 
not  step  an  inch,  not  even  for  her.  He  would  not  tell  her 
that  he  loved  her  because,  if  you  please,  he  considered  it 
wrong  to  do  so  under  the  circumstances.  Here  was  a  man 
who  not  only  had  principles,  but  actually  acted  up  to  them 
instead  of  seeking  to  make  others  do  so.  For  we  all  have 
principles  applicable  to  the  conduct  of  our  neighbors. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  he  said  at  length,  "  whether  this 
is  accidental  or  intentional  ?" 

"This  meeting?  " 

"Yes." 


Trapped.  295 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  cannot  say,"  she  answered,  loyal  to  her  friend. 
She  knew  that  if  it  was  intentional,  Agnes  Winter  was  not 
the  woman  to  do  such  a  thing  wantonly. 

He  answered  his  own  question. 

"It  must,"  he  said,  judicially,  "have  been  intended. 
Of  course  with  every  good  motive — but  it  was  a  little 
cruel." 

"  She  did  not  know,"  pleaded  the  girl.  "  She  did  not 
understand.  Perhaps  we  are  not  quite  the  same  as  other 
people." 

"You  are  not,"  he  answered,  slowly;  "there  is  no 
one  like  you." 

It  is  probable  that  such  words  had  been  spoken  to  her 
before,  for  there  are  men — slimy  parasites — who  seek  to 
raise  themselves  in  the  esteem  of  others  by  fulsome  flat- 
tery, and  if  she  had  passed  through  a  few  London  sea- 
sons without  meeting  some  samples,  she  must  have  been 
singularly  lucky.  But  the  words  were  spoken  so  simply 
and  with  so  much  straightforward  honesty  that  the  ver- 
iest prude  could  not  have  taken  offense.  Moreover,  this 
girl  had  apparently  no  thought  of  such  a  thing. 

She  glanced  at  him,  and  then  her  gaze  fell  on  nothing 
more  interesting  than  a  somewhat  ancient  carpet.  This 
was  more  or  less  appropriate,  for  in  her  dear  gray  eyes 
there  was  ancient  history — the  most  ancient  of  all — older 
than  any  Egyptian  record.  Dreams !  Nothing  but 
dreams  of  what  might  have  been  if  ...  Ah,  that  little 
word !  there  is  no  crueller  in  the  dictionary.  If,  my 
brethren,  life  were  not  what  it  most  assuredly  is,  we 
might  be  happy.  If  human  beings  were  only  not  human, 
there  might  be  bliss  here  below.  If,  moreover,  I  who 
write  these  poor  lines  were  only  a  gifted  novelist,  I  might 
know  how  to  patch  things  up.  1  might  do  away,  not  only 


296  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

with  the  few  yards  of  carpet  that  lay  between  them,  but 
with  the  larger,  tougher  circumstances  that  held  them 
apart.  I  might  work  up  a  series  of  marvelous  and  wholly 
impossible  events,  draw  most  heavily  upon  the  reserve  of 
your  credulity,  and  close  with  the  astounding  untruth 
that  these  two  were  happy  ever  after.  But  I  am  a 
modest  man.  I  am  shy  of  taking  upon  myself  the  task  of 
improving  the  Creator's  work,  of  offering  suggestions  to 
the  Almighty.  We  may  rest  assured  that  He  has  done 
the  best  for  us  possible  under  the  circumstances.  This  is 
no  work  of  imagination  ;  it  is  merely  a  somewhat  lame 
statement  of  facts,  and  if  these  facts  are  to  be  subverted 
for  the  edification  of  readers,  it  would  be  hard  to  know 
where  to  make  the  commencement. 

Before  either  of  these  two  persons  had  spoken  again, 
their  opportunity  of  ever  doing  so  was  taken  from  them, 
for  Miss  Winter  was  heard  approaching,  singing  as  she 
came.  She  opened  the  door  noisily,  and  came  into  the 
room,  rather  too  slowly,  considering  the  emphasis  with 
which  the  handle  had  been  turned. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed,  without  surprise,  "you  have 
come.  It  is  very  good  of  you,  for  Oswin  tells  me  you  are 
very  busy." 

She  looked  at  him  very  keenly,  but  never  glanced  in 
the  direction  of  Helen,  who  was  arranging  some  untidy 
music  on  the  top  of  the  piano. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  rather  vaguely,  "  I  have  a  good 
deal  to  do." 

"  It  is,"  she  hastened  to  say,  in  her  most  practical  way, 
"  about  Tim — what  is  his  name  ?  " 

"  Peters  ?  "  suggested  he. 

"  Peters — yes.     You  never  forget  anything." 

"  I  do  not  forget  very  much,"  he  admitted,  in  the  same 
perfunctory  way,  but  he  looked  over  her  head  towards 


Trapped.  297 

Helen,  which  made  the  quick-witted  little  woman  of  the 
world  think  that  perhaps  the  remark  was  not  intended  for 
her  information  alone. 

"A  friend  of  mine,"  she  continued,  "a  Mr.  Mason, 
wants  a  boy  on  board  his  yacht,  and  I  thought  that 
Peters  would  do,  if  you  are  not  taking  him  with  you." 
"  No,"  quietly,  "  1  am  not  taking  him  with  me." 
"  Then  I  may  send  young  Peters  to  see  Mr.  Mason  ?  " 
"  Certainly.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  troubling." 
He  was  at  his  stiffest,  and  Miss  Winter  could  not  help 
admiring  the  innate  good-breeding  with  which  he  attempted 
to  seem  pleasant  and  conversational.  She  had  seen  from 
the  threshold  that  her  plot  had  failed,  and  it  was  just  one 
of  those  plots  which  cannot  afford  to  fail.  Success  would 
have  made  her  a  benefactor  to  both,  but  success  had  not 
come  to  her,  and  she  recognized  instantly  the  falseness  of 
her  position.  She  knew  this  man  well  enough  to  foresee 
that  he  would  never  forgive  her ;  for,  as  he  himself  had 
said,  he  was  not  of  those  who  forget.  She  knew  that  this 
little  plot,  which  had  been  hatched  in  a  minute,  and  ex- 
ecuted in  ten,  would  alter  the  friendship  between  herself 
and  this  man  during  the  rest  of  their  lives.  And  she  had 
always  liked  him  ;  from  the  first  she  had  been  drawn  to- 
wards him  insensibly.  There  was  something  in  his  strong, 
self-contained  nature  that  appealed  to  her  cheery  woman- 
hood, and  now  she  felt  his  anger  as  she  had  never  felt  the 
wrath  of  any  one  since  her  girlhood.  Perhaps  this  feel- 
ing unnerved  her.  It  is  just  possible  that  something  might 
have  been  said  or  done  just  then  which  would  have  al- 
tered everything.  There  are  moments  when  our  lives 
hang  on  a  balance,  and  in  such  times  we  cannot  do  better 
than  did  Claud  Tyars  ;  we  cannot  do  better  than  throw 
boldly  in  the  weight  of  duty,  which  is  the  truest  weight 
and  measure  placed  in  our  mortal  hands. 


298  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

Agnes  Winter  was  fully  aware  that  between  herself  and 
Claud  Tyars  no  explanation  would  take  place.  He  was 
not  the  sort  of  man  to  listen  to  or  offer  explanations.  She 
knew  that  he  would  never  speak  of  this  incident,  and  felt 
that  her  own  courage  would  fail  her  to  broach  the  sub- 
ject. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  let  him  go.  She  had 
been  actuated  by  the  best  motives.  It  was  not  her  own 
happiness,  but  that  of  her  dearest  friend  for  which  she 
had  schemed.  She  had  played  a  bold  game,  and  now  her 
hand — the  losing  hand — lay  exposed.  There  was  nothing 
to  do  but  to  accept  defeat.  She  did  it  as  pluckily  as  she 
could,  shaking  hands  and  smiling  into  his  grave  face  as 
he  left  the  room. 

When  he  was  gone  the  two  women  returned  to  their 
separate  occupations.  Helen  opened  a  music-book,  and 
arranged  it  upon  the  stand,  as  a  preliminary  to  seating 
herself  at  the  piano. 

Miss  Winter  had  some  letters  to  write.  She  drew  a 
little  table  towards  the  fire,  and  made  a  certain  small  fuss 
in  opening  inkstand  and  blotting-book ;  but  she  did  not 
commence  writing,  and  somehow  or  other  Helen  did  not 
begin  to  play.  She  turned  the  pages,  and  seemed  uncer- 
tain as  to  the  selection  of  a  piece. 

At  last  the  elder  woman  looked  up — or,  to  be  more  cor- 
rect, she  raised  her  head,  and  looked  into  the  bright  fire, 
touching  her  lips  reflectively  with  the  feathers  of  a  quill 
pen. 

"  He  looks  worn  and  tired,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl,  softly,  and  in  that  little  word 
there  was  a  whole  world — a  woman's  world,  which  is  a 
much  larger  thing  than  our  world.  Ours  is  a  place  where- 
in to  work  until  we  are  tired,  and  then  to  rest  until  we  are 
ready  to  work  again.  It  is  a  place  wherein  a  few  pleasures 


Trapped.  299 

are  scattered  here  and  there  among  the  tasks,  and  some  of 
us  seem  to  meet  with  but  one  or  two  of  them,  while  we 
come  across  a  great  deal  of  heavy  labor.  But  women — 
the  women  at  least  of  whom  some  of  us  cannot  help  writ- 
ing— have  little  actual  work  set  them  to  do.  The  best  of 
them,  moreover,  find  that  pleasure  fails  to  fill  up  all  their 
time,  and  so  they  dream.  They  make  tasks  for  them- 
selves, and  love  to  execute  them  carefully,  for  these  are 
the  labors  of  love.  And  in  their  leisure  moments  they  sit 
down  and  make  for  themselves  this  larger  world,  which  is 
beyond  our  comprehension,  because  our  minds  are  neces- 
sarily full  of  the  hard,  hammer-headed  facts  of  daily  life 
— daily  competition,  and  the  daily  struggle  to  wrest  a  live- 
lihood out  of  our  neighbors'  pockets. 

Some  men  there  are,  however,  fortunate  enough  to  form 
apart — perhaps  the  greatest  part — of  this  unseen  world  to 
some  woman ;  and  it  really  matters  very  little  that  she 
clothe  him  in  a  wondrous  individuality  of  her  own  creation. 
If  he  is  true  to  her,  and  honestly  endeavors  to  do  his  best 
by  her,  a  higher  Hand  than  his  will  see  that  the  veil  be 
not  torn  too  ruthlessly  from  her  eyes. 

"  All  this  to-do,"  you  will  say,  "  about  a  little  word  !  " 
All  this  to-do,  if  you  please,  and  infinitely  more,  for  it  was 
all  contained  in  the  small  word  spoken  by  this  girl.  It 
claimed  possession,  and  even  pretended  to  a  monopoly,  as 
if  this  anxiety  were  hers,  and  she  were  jealous  of  its 
possession  ;  as  if  this  man's  weal  or  woe,  his  incomings, 
his  outgoings,  his  words  and  his  deeds,  were  hers — hers 
alone  to  sigh  over,  to  weep,  to  rejoice,  to  despair  over. 
And  just  because  it  was  her  property,  she  refused  to  dis- 
cuss it,  even  as  you  and  I  have  probably  one  person  in 
the  world  whose  virtues  or  faults  we  utterly  refuse  to  dis- 
cuss with  any  living  soul. 


3oo  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
EASTON'S    CARE. 

As  the  middle  of  February  approached,  Claud  Tyars 
was  tranquilly  engaged  in  his  preparations.  Several 
ladies  were  pleased  to  express  their  disapproval  of  this 
affectation  of  hard  work,  and  failed  to  see  why  his  eve- 
nings should  be  devoted  to  a  task  for  which  he  had  plenty 
of  time  during  the  day.  But  then  ladies  rarely  see  the 
necessity  of  complete  devotion,  and  never  quite  under- 
stand that  love  of  work  or  sport  which  exercises  over 
men  an  absorbing  influence.  This  is  doubtless  the  reason 
why  woman's  schemes  grow  hoary  and  effete  in  their 
childhood.  This  is  why  women  are  still  talking  of  their 
rights,  and  have  not  yet  secured  them.  There  are  also, 
however,  many  men  who  are  no  better  in  this  respect  than 
the  weaker  sex — men  who  imagine  that  the  larger  deeds 
of  life  are  done  en  passant.  It  takes  a  strong  mind  to 
compass  absorption,  and  a  stronger  to  battle  successfully 
against  it.  In  the  course  of  our  lives  we  occasionally 
meet  with  a  mind  of  this  description — a  mind  that  can 
shake  itself  free  at  times  from  the  absorbing  pursuit,  and 
take  quite  a  natural  interest  in  the  smaller  environments 
of  existence.  But  such  men  are  rare  ;  and  as  the  world 
goes  on,  gathering  detail  day  by  day,  they  bid  fair  to  be- 
come extinct.  It  simply  comes  to  this,  that  there  is  no 
time  to  master  the  entirety  of  more  than  one  subject,  be 
it  work  or  be  it  play  ;  and  if  we  attempt  to  handle  matters 


Easton's  Care.  301 

of  which  we  are  only  partially  masters,  some  one  else 
with  fuller  knowledge  will  come  and  supersede  us,  hold- 
ing us  up  to  ridicule  and  contempt. 

Claud  Tyars  did  not  possess  one  of  the  rare  intellects 
cited  above.  I  do  not  claim  that  for  him.  He  was  no 
genius — no  rara  avis — but  merely  a  purposeful,  some- 
what stubborn  Englishman,  such  as  one  may  meet  on  any 
club  stairs  in  London,  at  most  hours  of  the  day  or  night. 
The  only  remarkable  thing  about  him  was  the  possession 
of  a  singular  memory ;  but  as  that,  individually,  had  no 
direct  influence  upon  his  life,  it  has  not  been  made  much 
of  in  this  record.  The  memory,  as  it  happens,  does  not 
stand  alone  like  some  other  gifts,  such  as  music,  or  draw- 
ing, or  a  voice.  It  has  not  the  power  to  make  a  man,  of 
its  own  individual  strength,  like  one  of  these  ;  and  yet  if 
it  be  given  in  conjunction  with  some  slight  talent,  it  will 
raise  that  talent  and  its  possessor  almost  to  the  level  of 
genius. 

It  would  be  hard  to  determine  how  far  Tyars  realized 
his  position.  He  was  a  disciplinarian  of  the  firmest 
mold,  and  it  is  probable  that  he  had  never,  up  to  this 
time,  allowed  for  a  moment  the  fact  that  he  loved  Helen 
Grace.  This  determination  to  cultivate  the  blindness  of 
those  who  will  not  see  was  not  dictated  by  cowardice  ; 
because  Claud  Tyars  was,  like  most  physically  powerful 
men,  inclined  to  exaggerate  the  practise  of  facing  disa- 
greeable facts  with  both  eyes  open.  He  had  refused  to 
realize  this  most  inconvenient  truth,  because  he  was 
oppressed  by  a  vague  fear  that  realization  meant  betrayal. 
His  attitude  was  one  assumed  often  enough  by  many  of 
us.  He  wished  to  be  in  a  position  to  deny. 

He  was,  as  I  have  attempted  to  show,  a  fairly  deter- 
mined man,  and  one  anxious  to  act  up  to  slowly-conceived 
principles.  His  attitude  towards  Helen  Grace  had  been, 


3O2  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

from  a  period  previous  to  the  fire  at  the  Epic  Theater,  a 
carefully-studied  demonstration  of  indifference.  And  now 
all  this  had  crumbled  to  dust ;  his  lofty  barricade  had 
been  thrown  down  at  the  raising  of  a  woman's  hand. 
From  the  very  first  there  had  been,  between  himself  and 
Agnes  Winter,  an  antagonism  of  which  the  chief  peculiar- 
ity was  a  marked  lack  of  enmity.  They  were  friends, 
but  unquestionably  antagonistic. 

He  now  suspected  that  Miss  Winter  had  known  all 
along  that  Helen  Grace  was  not  the  same  to  him  as  other 
women.  Added  to  this  was  a  suspicion  that  she  calmly 
and  deliberately  undertook  the  task  of  forcing  him  to  say 
as  much  to  Helen  herself.  He  could  think  this  now  with- 
out vanity.  And  there  was  left  to  him,  as  he  quitted 
Miss  Winter's  house,  the  startling  knowledge  that  she 
had  succeeded  in  her  purpose.  Most  men,  sooner  or 
later  in  their  lives,  find  themselves  outwitted  by  a  woman. 
It  is  usually  in  some  trifling  matter,  and  just  one  of  those 
trifles  which  affect  greater  questions  to  follow.  It  was 
something  new  for  Tyars  to  find  himself  in  this  position. 
He  had,  you  see,  had  remarkably  little  to  do  with  women, 
which  probably  accounted  for  this  novelty. 

Miss  Winter's  action  puzzled  him  exceedingly.  He  was 
inexperienced,  and  therefore  ignorant  of  a  great  motive 
influencing  the  thoughts  of  women  all  through  their  lives  : 
namely,  the  love  of  Love.  This  is  a  motive  of  which 
men  are  singularly  ignorant.  Has  any  one  ever  met  a 
male  match-maker  ?  Has  any  one  come  across  a  father 
who  is  by  turns  conveniently  blind  and  inconveniently 
keen-sighted,  as  are  nine  mothers  out  of  ten  ?  Have  you, 
my  friend,  ever  been  assisted  in  that  little  affair  of  yours 
with — you  know  who,  by  Tom  or  Dick  or  Harry  ? 

A  French  cynic  (whose  name  is  here  suppressed,  be- 
cause his  works  and  his  sayings  are  so  very  cheap)  was 


Eastern's  Care.  303 

of  opinion  that  a  woman  first  loves  her  lover,  and  then 
loves  Love.  Like  those  of  other  nationalities  this  French 
cynic  occasionally  sacrificed  truth  to  smartness.  He  of- 
tentimes failed  to  deliver  an  epigram  by  endeavoring  to 
be  too  epigrammatic ;  and  one  regrets  that  he  should  at 
times  have  expressed  his  thought  in  such  a  few  words. 
The  old  philosopher  knew  well  enough  that  at  the  bottom 
of  all  feminine  passions  there  is  the  love  of  Love  itself. 

Claud  Tyars  had  never  studied  women,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  he  had  never  had  cause  to  do  so.  It  was 
therefore  a  mystery  to  him  why  Agnes  Winter  should 
have  meddled  in  a  matter  distinctly  personal  to  himself. 
His  anger  against  the  lady  was  chiefly  aroused  by  a  chiv- 
alrous respect  for  the  feelings  of  Helen  Grace ;  and  his 
dominating  thought  during  the  few  days  following  his  visit 
to  Miss  Winter,  was  that  he  was  bound  in  honor  to  avoid 
meeting  Helen  before  he  sailed.  But  at  times  the  recol- 
lection of  that  short  interview  would  force  its  way  into  his 
mind,  leaving  him  irresolute.  She  knew  now,  so  what 
difference  could  it  make  ?  He  remembered  each  little  in- 
cident, each  word  spoken,  and  the  tiniest  inflection  of 
tone  in  the  speaking.  Every  movement  was  before  his 
eyes,  and  he  was  haunted  by  the  vision  of  Helen,  as  she 
stood  near  the  fire  looking  back  over  her  shoulder  at  him, 
with  a  smile  in  those  soft,  pathetic,  old-world  eyes  of 
hers.  It  was  a  smile  that  would  haunt  him  ever  after ; 
for  once  his  memory  was  a  curse. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  over  the  singular 
lack  of  surprise  in  his  own  mind  at  his  present  position. 
Indeed  there  was  to  his  simple,  straightforward  compre- 
hension no  cause  for  astonishment  in  the  fact  that  he 
should  love  Helen  Grace  ;  and  many  a  subtler  man  than 
this  athletic  Briton  has  argued  to  himself  that  there  is  no 
surprise  in  love.  Most  men  are  convinced  that  there  is  no 


304  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

alternative.  Discipline  is  a  necessity  which  the  majority 
of  boys  are  taught  to  recognize  before  they  learn  anything 
else,  and  whatever  it  may  be  to  women,  love  is  a  discipline 
to  men.  It  seems  very  plain  that  there  is  for  the  majority 
of  us  one  woman  placed  in  the  world  within  our  reach 
(though  many  of  us  have  to  stretch  up  or  down  to  meet 
her),  and  we  must  love  that  woman  simply  because  she 
is  there  for  the  purpose.  We  may  see  her  faults  and 
deprecate  them — these  faults  may  clash  continually  with 
our  own,  but  still  we  love  her  and  we  cannot  help  it.  We 
simply  bow  to  a  necessity  without  defining  it.  It  seems 
that  all  the  surprise  lies  in  the  other  side  of  the  question  ; 
namely,  in  the  fact  that  we  are  loved.  But  Claud  Tyars 
was  not  one  of  those  subtle  persons  who  would  distill  all 
the  joy  out  of  life  by  too  deep  analysis.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  him  to  attempt  a  definition  of  Helen's  feelings 
towards  himself.  He  had  not  asked  her  if  she  could  ever 
love  him,  she  had  told  him  nothing  unasked  ;  and  yet  it 
seemed  to  be  all  understood  between  them.  It  was  one  of 
those  many  things  which  go  sans  dire  among  us  who  have 
tongues  to  speak  and  ears  to  hear — one  of  the  cases  which 
the  heart  appropriates  and  understands  with  an  under- 
standing beyond  that  of  the  ears  or  eyes.  They  had 
never  spoken  much  together,  these  two.  They  had  only 
met  at  odd  moments  in  odd,  public  places  ;  and  almost  all 
their  words  have  been  set  down  here.  But  there  was 
something  else  which  cannot  be  set  down  here,  which 
never  has  been  set  on  paper  yet ;  something  which,  by 
the  mere  presence  or  absence  of  a  certain  person,  lends  a 
superhuman  interest  to  trifles  or  deprives  existence  of 
its  charm. 

These  thoughts  may  have  revolved,  flitted,  chased  each 
other  through  the  mind  of  this  Englishman  ;  but,  true  to 
his  birth,  he  never  put  them  into  shape  :  he  never  at- 


Easton's  Care.  305 

tempted  definition.  There  are  many  things  which  cannot 
be  defined,  and  the  chiefest  of  them  I  take  to  be  a  woman's 
heart.  There  is  the  loftiest  pride,  and  close  beside  it  the 
completest  humility  ;  but  one  can  never  tell  which  of  the 
two  will  be  up  in  arms  before  the  other.  With  one  of 
them  most  women  meet  most  difficulties  ;  but  as  far  as  I, 
in  a  small  way,  have  learnt  to  know  them,  no  rule  can  be 
laid  down  as  to  which  arm  they  will  take  up  under  any 
circumstances  that  may  arise. 

During  the  few  days  that  followed  his  call  at  Miss 
Winter's,  Tyars  avoided  meeting  Oswin  Grace.  There 
was  plenty  of  work  to  be  done,  and  he  did  it  with  extraor- 
dinary care,  and  a  marked  attention  to  detail.  He  heard 
that  the  younger  Peters  had  been  engaged  by  the  yachts- 
man, and  was  to  enter  upon  his  new  duties  the  second 
week  in  March.  The  old  carpenter  was  still  sore,  but 
more  resigned  to  being  parted  from  his  son.  From  the 
persistence  with  which  he  spoke  well  of  Miss  Winter,  it 
appeared  probable  that  this  better  state  of  mind  had  been 
brought  about  by  her  influence. 

There  was,  however,  one  person  from  whose  society 
Tyars  found  it  impossible  to  withdraw.  This  person  was 
Matthew  Mark  Easton  ;  the  keenest  observer,  as  it  hap- 
pened, among  his  friends.  Since  the  receipt  of  Pavloski's 
letter  the  American  had  appeared  to  realize  suddenly  the 
responsibility  he  was  incurring.  There  is  a  period  in 
every  scheme,  whether  it  deal  in  peace  or  war,  when  this 
sudden  sense  of  responsibility  is  recognized ;  and  this 
period  usually  follows  on  the  first  action. 

At  all  hours  of  the  day  or  night  Easton  kept  dropping 
in,  either  at  the  club  or  on  board  the  exploring  vessel. 
There  were  a  thousand  minor  points  upon  which  he  wished 
to  consult  Tyars,  a  thousand  trifling  orders  executed 

which  had  to  be  reported  to  the  leader. 
20 


306  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

And  he  managed  very  cleverly.  Any  one  with  suffi- 
cient leisure  and  astuteness  to  dog  the  footsteps  and 
follow  out  the  motives  of  this  keen-witted  American  dur- 
ing that  chill  month  of  February  five  years  ago,  would 
have  been  edified  by  a  complete  study  of  unobtrusive 
watchful  care.  He  never  quite  understood  his  friend ; 
he  never  quite  arrived  at  the  inner  wheels  of  his  mind  to 
see  that  which  was  being  slowly  ground  there.  But  he 
was  conscious  of  the  grinding,  and  he  sometimes  wondered 
what  sort  of  man  Claud  Tyars  would  be  when  he  had 
passed  through  this  phase  of  his  life.  Since  boyhood 
Tyars  had  always  been  singular.  There  had  been  no 
turning-points  in  his  life,  no  acute  angles  ;  but  there  had 
been  one  or  two  great  broad  curves  around  which  as  boy 
and  as  man  he  had  pressed  with  a  strong  slow  impulse, 
just  as  some  of  us  have  seen  huge  rivers  like  the  Nile,  or 
the  Volga,  or  the  Danube  press  onward  round  curve  and 
over  sunny  plain  with  a  force  which  comes  we  know  not 
whence  ;  but  we  can  see  that  while  it  is  slow  and  gentle, 
it  means  to  go  on,  and  there  is  no  resisting  it. 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  stood  and  watched,  as  you  may 
have  watched  these  slow  strong  rivers,  and  knew  that  his 
friend  was  passing  on  to  some  new  country  with  a  pur- 
pose which  he  could  not  stay  nor  turn  aside.  Probably 
he  felt  a  little  doubtful  of  Claud  Tyars — felt  that  he  could 
not  rely  upon  him  to  act  like  other  men.  At  any  moment 
the  unexpected  might  supervene. 

Deeply,  however,  as  he  felt  his  responsibility,  anxious 
as  he  was,  he  never  lost  spirit.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  whose  courage  rises  to  the  occasion,  and  while  he 
recognized  fully  that  without  Claud  Tyars  failure  was  in- 
evitable, he  would  not  blind  himself  into  the  belief  that 
the  leader  was  absolutely  safe. 

This  is  perhaps  the  time  to  justify  as  far  as  possible 


Easton's  Care.  307 

the  action  of  these  three  men.  To  begin  with,  it  must  be 
clearly  understood  that  escape  from  Siberia  by  the  north 
is  a  perfectly  feasible  thing.  That  it  has  been  attempted 
by  a  party  of  men  quite  inadequately  prepared,  almost 
without  money  and  entirely  dependent  on  their  own  re- 
sources, is  an  historical  fact.  At  least  it  is  as  historical  as 
any  fact  connected  with  the  darker  side  of  Russian  do- 
mestic administration.  That  the  attempt  failed  is  equally 
well  known,  but  success  was  almost  within  the  grasp 
of  these  desperate  fugitives,  and  only  eluded  them 
by  the  want  of  such  facilities  as  could  easily  have  been 
supplied  by  outside  aid.  That  the  attempt  to  effect  such 
an  escape  was  on  another  occasion  crowned  with  success, 
is  a  fact  upon  which  it  is  inexpedient  to  enlarge  here. 
This  is,  partially  at  least,  a  work  of  fiction,  and  it  would 
be  cowardly  and  very  despicable  to  endanger  the  liberty 
of  two  brave  men  by  taking  advantage  of  confidence,  in 
order  to  claim  the  first  telling  of  their  history.  In  antici- 
pation therefore  of  comment,  and  in  view  of  shoulders 
skeptically  shrugged,  it  is  perhaps  wise  to  deny  the  charge 
of  improbability  at  once.  This  scheme  of  assisting  escape 
from  the  vast  prison-land  of  Russia  by  the  Arctic  Ocean 
is  not  an  impossible  dream  conceived  by  the  novelist  in 
order  to  find  a  picturesque  background  for  his  stage.  For 
surely  the  life  that  throbs  and  writhes  and  struggles  all 
around  us — the  life  going  on  beneath  the  thousands,  nay 
the  millions  of  smoking  chimneys  in  London,  is  sufficiently 
interesting  to  write  about,  to  read  of,  and  to  meditate 
upon,  without  inventing  impossible  human  beings  and 
impossible  human  lives. 

In  reply  therefore  to  all  skepticism  as  to  the  possibility 
of  escape  from  Siberia  by  the  north,  there  are  only  four 
words  to  say.  It  has  been  done  ! 

In   reply  to  arguments  on  the   improbability  of  two 


308  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

Englishmen  and  an  American  taking  up  this  scheme,  and 
spending  thereupon  their  time,  their  money,  and  their 
energies  ;  risking  therein  their  lives,  their  reputations,  and 
in  the  case  of  Oswin  Grace  a  career,  it  can  only  be  pleaded 
that  it  is  an  easy  matter  to  find  half  a  dozen  Englishmen 
ready  at  this  moment  to  do  the  same. 

And,  speaking  generally,  as  one  wanders  over  the  face 
of  the  globe,  gathering  evidence  here  and  there,  picking 
up  little  odds  and  ends  of  stories  (the  never-failing  and 
always  fresh  stories  of  the  lives  of  men),  it  seems  hard 
to  recognize  that  there  is  anything  which  some  Englishman 
or  another  will  not  undertake. 


Easton  Takes  Counsel.  309 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

* 

EASTON  TAKES  COUNSEL. 

AT  the  risk  of  being  accused  of  betraying  the  secrets  of 
the  sex,  this  opportunity  is  taken  of  recording  an  observa- 
tion made  respecting  men.  It  is  simply  this,  that  we  all 
turn  sooner  or  later  to  some  woman  in  our  difficulties. 
And  when  a  man  has  gone  irretrievably  to  the  dogs,  his 
descent  is  explicable  by  the  simple  argument  that  he  hap- 
pened to  turn  to  the  wrong  woman.  Matthew  Mark  Eas- 
ton had  hitherto  got  along  fairly  well  without  feminine  in- 
terference, but  this  in  no  manner  detracted  from  his  respect 
for  feminine  astuteness.  This  respect  now  urged  him  to 
brush  his  hat  very  carefully  one  afternoon,  purchase  a 
new  flower  for  his  buttonhole,  and  drive  to  Miss  Winter's. 

He  found  that  lady  at  home  and  alone. 
"  I  thought,"  he  said,  as  he  entered  the  room  and 
placed  his  hat  carefully  on  the  piano,  "  that  I  should  find 
you  at  home  this  afternoon.  It  is  so  English  outside. 
Excuse  my  apparent  solicitude  for  my  hat.  It  is  a  new 
one.  Left  its  predecessor  at  the  Epic." 

"  The  weather  does  not  usually  affect  my  movements," 
replied  Miss  Winter.  "  I  am  glad  you  came  this  after- 
noon, because  I  am  not  often  to  be  found  at  home  at  this 
time." 

"  Oh  !  "  he  answered,  coolly,  as  he  accepted  the  chair 
she  indicated.  "  I  should  have  gone  on  coming  right 
along  till  I  found  you  in." 


3io  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

Eastern's  way  of  making  remarks  of  this  description 
sometimes  made  an  answer  superfluous,  and  Miss  Win- 
ter took  it  in  this  light  now.  She  laughed  and  said 
nothing,  obviously  waiting  for  him  to  start  some  new 
subject. 

He  sat  quietly  and  looked  with  perfect  self-possession, 
not  at  the  carpet  or  the  ceiling,  as  is  usual  on  such  occa- 
sions, but  at  her.  At  last  it  was  borne  in  upon  him  that 
he  had  not  called  for  this  purpose,  pleasant  as  the  exer- 
cise of  it  might  be  ;  so  he  spoke. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  conversationally,  "  you  go  out  mostly 
in  the  afternoons  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  out  a  great  deal.  I  have  calls  to  make  and 
shops  to  look  at,  and  I  often  take  tea  with  Helen." 

His  little  nod  seemed  to  say,  "  Yes  ;  I  know  of  that 
friendship." 

"  And,"  he  continued,  with  a  vast  display  of  the  deep- 
est interest,  "  I  surmise  that  you  go  in  a  close  carriage, 
so  that  the  weather  does  not  hinder  you." 

"  No  ;  I  only  have  an  open  carriage,  a  Victoria." 

"Ah!  " 

"  It  is  a  very  convenient  vehicle,  so  easy  of  access." 

"  Yes  ;  so  I  should  surmise." 

"  And  it  is  light  for  the  horse." 

"  Runs  easily  ?  "  he  inquired  almost  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  it  runs  easily." 

Then  they  seemed  to  come  to  a  full-stop  again.  She 
racked  her  brain  for  some  subject  of  sufficient  interest  and 
not  too  far  removed  from  the  safe  topic  of  weather. 

It  was  a  ludicrous  position  for  two  persons  of  their  ex- 
perience and  savoirfaire.  At  last  Miss  Winter  gave  way 
to  a  sudden  impulse  without  waiting  to  think  to  what 
end  the  beginning  might  lead. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Tyars  ?  "  she  asked. 


Easton  Takes  Counsel.  311 

"  He  is  well,"  was  the  answer,  "  thank  you.  His  arm 
is  knitting  nicely." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  then  he  added  with  a  marked 
drawl  (an  Americanism  to  which  he  rarely  gave  way) — 

"  Ho — w  is  Miss  Grace  ?  " 

Agnes  Winter  looked  up  sharply.  They  had  got  there 
already,  and  her  loyalty  to  friend  and  sex  was  up  inarms. 
And  yet  she  had  foreseen  it  surely  all  along.  She  had 
known  from  the  moment  of  his  entering  the  room  that 
this  point  was  destined  to  be  reached. 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  met  the  gaze  of  those  clever 
northern  eyes  with  a  half  smile.  His  own  quick  glance 
was  alert  and  mobile.  His  look  seemed  to  flit  from 
her  eyes  to  her  lips  and  from  her  lips  to  her  hands  with  a 
sparkling  vitality  impossible  to  follow.  They  seemed  to 
be  taking  mental  measure  each  of  the  other  in  friendly 
antagonism,  like  two  fencers  with  buttoned  foils. 

She  gave  a  little  short  laugh,  half  pleased,  half  embar- 
rassed, like  the  laugh  of  some  fair  masker  when  she  finds 
herself  forced  to  lay  aside  her  mask. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  how  much  you  know  !  " 

The  strange,  wrinkled  face  fell  at  once  into  an  expres- 
sion of  gravity  which  rendered  it  somewhat  wistful  and 
almost  ludicrous. 

"  Nothing — I  guess  !  " 

"  How  much  you  surmise  .  .  ."  she  amended,  uncon- 
sciously using  a  word  towards  which  he  had  a  decided 
conversational  penchant. 

"Everything.     My  mind  is  in  a  fevered  state  of  sur- 
mise." 

He  sat  leaning  forward  with  his  arms  resting  on  his 
dapper  knees,  with  a  keen,  expectant  look  upon  his  ner- 
vous face.  He  was  just  a  little  suggestive  of  a  monkey 
waiting  to  catch  a  nut. 


312  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

The  lady  leant  back  in  her  chair  meditating  deeply. 
She  was  viewing  her  position,  and  perhaps  remembering 
that  her  acquaintance  with  this  man  was  but  of  three 
months'  growth. 

"  Is  there  anything  to  be  done  ?  "  she  asked,  after  a 
lengthened  pause. 

"I  counted,"  he  answered,  "that  I  would  put  that 
question  to  you." 

She  nodded  her  head  gravely. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  that  as  you  had  come  to  me,  you 
wished  me  to  help  you  in  something." 

He  looked  distressed,  for  her  meaning  was  obvious. 

"  No — I  came  to  you  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  well,  because 
you  seemed  the  right  person  to  come  to." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"That  is  a  mistake." 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  I  can  do  nothing,  that  I  am  pow- 
erless ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  before  replying  tersely — 

"  Can't  say  I  do.  I  do  not  know  how  these  things  are 
done  in  England,  but  .  .  ." 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  short  laugh  in  which  there 
was  a  noticeable  ring  of  annoyance. 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  how  they  are  done  in  England. 
There  can  only  be  one  way  of  doing  it  all  the  world  over." 

"  And  who  is  to  do  it,  Miss  Winter  ?  " 

"You,  Mr.  Easton." 

"  And,"  he  continued  imperturbably,  "  what  am  I  to 
do?  " 

"Well  .  .  .  I  should  go  to  Mr.  Tyars  and  say  :  'Claud 
Tyars,  you  cannot  go  on  this  expedition — you  have  no 
right  to  sacrifice  the  happiness  of  ...  of  another  to  the 
gratification  of  your  own  personal  ambition.'  " 


Easton  Takes  Counsel.  313 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  he  said,  deliberately. 

"Won't,"  she  corrected. 

"Can't,"  he  persisted,  politely. 

"  Why  ?  " 

"I  can't  tell  you." 

"Won't,  again,"  she  commented. 

"  I  do  not  see,"  he  argued,  defending  himself  in  antici- 
pation, "  that  any  one  is  to  blame.  It  is  an  unforeseen 
accident  ;  a  misfortune." 

"  It  is  a  great  misfortune." 

"  And  yet,"  he  pleaded,  looking  at  her  in  a  curious 
way,  "  it  could  not  have  been  foreseen.  We  are  all  of  us 
liable  to  such  misfortunes.  I  had  no  reason  to  suspect 
that  Tyars  was  more  liable  than  myself.  It  might  have 
happened  to  me." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  more  softly,  without  raising  her 
eyes.  "  Yes,  it  might." 

He  had  uttered  the  words  in  such  a  manner  as  to  render 
the  thought  infinitely  ludicrous.  She  thought  that  such 
a  thing  might  happen  to  him.  And  yet  somehow  she  failed 
to  laugh.  Perhaps  there  was  an  undercurrent  of  pathos  in 
the  thin  pleasant  voice,  into  which  her  thoughts  had 
drifted. 

"  I  cannot  say,"  she  continued,  "  that  I  foresaw  it,  for 
that  was  impossible.  There  was  no  time.  But  ...  I 
think  I  knew  it  the  moment  I  saw  them  together,  when 
Oswin  brought  him  to  dine  at  Brook  Street.  They  had 
met  before,  some  years  ago,  at  Oxford,  you  know." 

"  Then,"  he  said,  in  a  relieved  tone,  "  I  surmise  the 
matter  is  out  of  our  hands." 

"It  never  was  in  our  hands,  Mr.  Easton,"  corrected 
the  lady. 

He  looked  wistfully  uneasy,  as  if  caught  in  the  act  of 
enunciating  high  treason. 


314  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  No,"  he  said,  meekly. 

"  Such  matters  are  rarely  in  the  hands  of  outsiders,  and 
in  those  rare  cases  only  to  a  very  small  extent." 

"  No — yes,"    he  conceded    with  additional  meekness. 

In  his  airy  way  Matthew  Mark  Easton  was  a  wise  man. 
He  held  his  peace  and  waited.  In  the  expressive  language 
of  his  native  land,  it  may  be  said  that  he  let  the  lady 
"  have  the  floor."  The  question  was  one  upon  which  he 
eagerly  allowed  his  companion  to  have  the  first  and  long- 
est say.  He  was  rather  awed  by  the  proportions  of  it, 
treated  generally,  and  by  the  intricacies  of  the  individual 
illustration  of  which  he  formed  an  unwilling  figure. 

"  I  have  done  my  best,"  she  said,  "  to  put  a  stop  to 
this  extremely  foolish  expedition.  I  notice  you  look  sur- 
prised, Mr.  Easton  ;  that  is  hardly  complimentary,  for  it 
would  insinuate  that  my  efforts  were  so  puny  as  to  have 
been  overlooked  entirely." 

He  denied  this  with  an  expressive  gesture  of  the  hand. 

"  Of  course,"  she  continued,  "if  men  choose  to  risk 
their  lives  unnecessarily,  I  suppose  there  is  no  actual  law 
to  stop  them.  But  they  should  first  look  round  in  their 
own  home  circle,  and  see  that  their  lives  are  entirely  their 
own  to  risk.  Foolhardiness,  entailing  anxiety  for  others, 
is  little  short  of  a  crime.  Men  lose  sight  of  this  fact  very 
often  in  their  desire  to  convince  the  world  of  their  courage 
and  enterprise.  Claud  Tyars  ought  never  to  have  gone 
to  Brook  Street." 

"  But  how  was  he  to  know  ?  " 

"  He  knew,"  said  the  lady,  deliberately,  "  that  he  loved 
Helen.  He  knew  that  he  had  loved  her  ever  since  he  was 
a  boy." 

"But,"  argued  Easton,  "the  fact  of  his  loving  her 
could  scarcely  be  looked  upon  as  a  crime  so  long  as  he 
kept  it  to  himself.  Tyars  is  deep.  I  do  not  often  know 


Easton  Takes  Counsel.  315 

what  he  is  driving  at  myself.  He  never  asked  Miss 
Grace  to  reciprocate  his  feelings." 

Miss  Winter  laughed  in  derision. 

"What  have  I  done  ?  I  surmise  I've  made  a  joke," 
said  Easton. 

"  Excuse  my  laughter,"  she  said.  "  But  you  obviously 
know  so  little  about  it.  Do  you  actually  imagine  that 
Helen  Grace  does  not  know,  and  has  not  known  all  along, 
that  Claud  Tyars  looks  upon  her  as  the  only  woman  in 
the  world,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned  ?  " 

"  I  have  hitherto  imagined  that,  Miss  Winter." 

"  Then  you  have  never  been  in  love." 

He  looked  at  her  with  twinkling  eyes,  and  seemed  to  be 
on  the  point  of  saying  something  which,  however,  he 
never  did,  and  she  continued  rather  hurriedly — 

"  Let  me  warn  you,"  she  said,  "  against  a  very  com- 
mon error.  Men,  and  especially  young  men,  are  in  the  habit 
of  believing  that  women  evolve  a  love  for  them  out  of  their 
own  inner  consciousness.  They  go  about  the  world  with 
a  pleased  sense  of  uncertainty  as  to  the  number  of  maid- 
ens who  have  fixed,  hopelessly  and  unsought,  their  way- 
ward affections  upon  them." 

Easton  acknowledged  the  truth  of  this  statement  by  a 
quick  nod  of  the  head. 

"  You  may  take  it,"  continued  the  lady,  "  as  a  rule  al- 
most without  exception,  that  girls  never  give  their  love  to 
a  man  unsought.  The  man  may  not  speak  of  his  love, 
but  he  betrays  it,  and  the  result  is  the  same.  A  girl  may 
admire  a  man,  she  may  be  ready  to  love  him,  but  the  only 
thing  that  can  attract  her  love  is  his.  I  know  I  am  right 
in  this,  Mr.  Easton.  It  is  the  fashion  to  rant  about  the 
incomprehensibility  of  women,  but  we  understand  each 
other.  If  Mr.  Tyars  had  been  indifferent  to  Helen  she 
would  never  .  ." 


316  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

She  stopped,  arrested  by  a  quick  movement  of  his 
hand. 

"Don't!"  he  said,  with  that  peculiar  deliberation 
which  is  a  transatlantic  demonstration  of  shyness  ;  "  don't 
say  any  more  on  that  point.  There  are  certain  things 
which  we  men  do  not  like  discussing." 

She  gave  a  little  laugh,  and  changed  color  like  a  girl. 

'•  I  admire  your  chivalry,"  she  said.  "  It  is  genuine, 
and  consequently  rare." 

"  I  did  not  know,"  he  answered,  simply,  "that  it  was 
chivalry.  If  it  is,  Miss  Grace  has  taught  it  to  me.  It  is 
her  due.  She  reminds  me  of  an  old  picture  I  must  have 
seen  somewhere  when  I  was  a  little  chap.  Such  girls 
must  have  lived  in  England  when  we  roamed  in  the 
backwoods.  We  have  none  like  them  in  my  country. 
Discuss  Tyars  as  much  as  you  like,  but  do  not  let  us  talk 
about  Miss  Grace." 

"  I  believe,"  said  the  lady,  "  that  you  are  half  in  love 
with  her  yourself." 

"No,"  he  answered,  gravely,  "I  am  not,  because 
.  .  .  well,  no  matter — that  does  not  count." 

"  I  wish,"  Agnes  Winter  went  on  to  add,  in  that  pecu- 
liarly hurried  way  previously  noticed,  "that  we  knew 
what  to  do." 

"I,"  he  said,  "  can  only  tell  you  one  thing,  namely, 
that  Claud  Tyars  will  go  on  this  expedition.  Nothing 
will  prevent  that.  Besides — he  must  go." 

"  Why  ?  "  pleaded  the  lady,  using  unscrupulously  all  her 
powers  of  fascination,  all  the  persuasion  of  her  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  You  are  as  determined  a  man  as  Claud  Tyars  himself." 

"  I  am,  I  reckon — in  some  things." 

"  Surely  you  can  trust  me,  Mr.  Easton." 

He  moved  uneasily  in  his  seat,  and  she,  taking  advan- 


Easton  Takes  Counsel.  317 

tage  of  his  hesitation,  leant  forward  with  her  two  hands 
held  out  in  supplication  ;  then  he  seemed  to  yield. 

"  Because,"  he  said,  in  an  even,  emotionless  voice, 
"  Claud  Tyars  has  bound  himself  to  go,  and  I  will  not  let 
him  off  his  contract !  It  is  my  expedition." 

He  hardly  expected  her  to  believe  it,  knowing  Tyars 
and  himself  as  she  did.  But  he  was  quite  aware  that  he 
laid  himself  open  to  a  blow  on  the  sorest  spot  in  his  heart. 

"  Then  why  do  you  not  go  yourself,  Mr.  Easton  ?  " 

He  winced  under  it  all  the  same,  though  he  made  no  at- 
tempt to  justify  himself.  She  had  touched  his  pride,  and 
there  is  no  prouder  man  on  earth  than  a  high-bred  North 
American.  He  merely  sat  and  endeavored  to  keep  his 
lips  still,  as  Tyars  would  have  managed  to  do.  In  a  second 
Miss  Winter  saw  the  result  of  the  taunt,  and  her  generous 
heart  was  softened. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  ;  "  I  know  there  must 
be  some  good  reason." 

She  waited  in  order  to  give  him  an  opportunity  of  set- 
ting forth  his  good  reason,  but  he  refused  to  take  it,  and 
she  never  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  it  from  his  own 
lips. 

At  this  moment  the  front-door  bell  gave  a  good  old- 
fashioned  peal  in  the  basement,  and  Easton  rose  to  his 
feet  at  once. 

"  I  believe,"  he  said,  "that  it  would  be  inexpedient  for 
me  to  be  seen  here  by  Miss  Grace,  or  Oswin,  or  Tyars. 
They  would  know  what  we  had  been  talking  about." 

Miss  Winter  saw  the  correctness  of  his  judgment. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  expect  it  is  Helen.  Come 
into  this  second  drawing-room.  When  you  hear  this  door 
opened,  go  out  of  the  other  and  down-stairs.  Good-by. 
Come  and  see  me  again." 

"  I  will,"  he  said,  vanishing  into  the  inner  room. 


318  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

EASTON  MAKES  A  STAND. 

THERE  is  one  distinct  drawback  to  the  practise  of  mak- 
ing disinterested  endeavors.  This  lies  in  the  simple  fact 
that  no  one  (not  even  the  best  of  friends)  believes  in  the 
motive  of  such  endeavors.  A  disinterested  man  is  like  the 
sea-serpent,  inasmuch  as  those  who  have  met  him  are  so 
systematically  pooh-poohed  that  they  begin  to  disbelieve 
the  evidence  of  their  own  senses.  A  disinterested  woman 
is  still  rarer,  though  one  might  find  such  a  creature  if  one 
took  the  trouble  to  search,  and  lived  long  enough  to  do  so 
systematically. 

But  the  disinterested  woman  was  a  specimen  of  the  hu- 
man kind  which  had  not  yet  come  to  classification  in  the 
mind  of  Matthew  Mark  Easton.  He  effected  his  retreat 
with  masterly  success,  but  was  unfortunate  enough  to 
carry  away  with  him  a  wrong  impression ;  namely,  that 
Miss  Winter  had  endeavored  to  frustrate  his  plans,  not 
for  Helen's  sake,  but  for  her  own.  It  was  not  Claud 
Tyars  whom  she  wished  to  keep  in  England,  but  Oswin 
Grace,  and  in  the  mean  time  it  was  very  convenient  to  as- 
sign an  impersonal  reason  to  her  antagonism.  Easton 
thought  no  less  of  Miss  Winter  because  she  adopted  this 
ruse.  He  had  been  reared  in  a  keen  competitive  school, 
teaching  somewhat  vague  scruples  ;  and  in  matters  of  love 
it  is  well  known  that  the  line  is  very  lightly  drawn  that 
separates  the  honorable  from  the  dishonorable, 

Easton  was  a  keen  analyst  of  the  smaller  factors  of  daily 


Easton  Makes  a  Stand.  319 

existence.  He  was  an  expert  on  the  surface  of  the  human 
mind.  Without  making  any  great  study  of  character, 
without  looking  very  deep  for  motives,  his  knowledge  of 
the  superficial  was  exceedingly  varied.  Little  conversa- 
tional and  social  habits  rarely  escaped  his  notice.  Had  he 
been  a  novelist  he  would  have  recorded  with  infinite  sub- 
tlety the  small-beer  of  social  intercourse  from  which  is  dis- 
tilled the  drachm  of  spirit  called  Individuality.  But  be- 
yond that  his  powers  would  have  been  unable  to  reach. 
He  could  not  have  drawn  a  character  with  any  sequence, 
although  the  same  might  be  hidden  in  the  unclassified  mass 
of  his  chronicles.  And,  after  all,  his  method  had  its  good 
points.  He  may  have  made  mistakes  ;  but  you  may 
study  human  nature  all  your  life,  by  any  method  whatso- 
ever, and  you  will  do  the  same.  Many  of  us,  you  know, 
are  devoid  of  character.  The  majority  of  us  without 
doubt  are  in  this  position.  We  (the  majority)  are  all  su- 
perficies and  no  depth,  all  small-beer  and  no  spirit.  And 
so  the  superficial  method  is  probably  the  safest.  One 
meets  with  more  momentary  motives  than  permanent 
purposes,  although  in  many  cases  the  former  in  their 
number  tend  directly  or  indirectly  to  the  service  of  a 
single  purpose.  These  cases,  however,  are  generally 
women,  and  the  gentle  divergence  of  all  small  motives  to 
one  great  purpose  is  not  the  force  of  the  character,  but  the 
tendency  of  the  soul.  We  may  read  character,  but  the 
soul  is  illegible.  One  can  foretell  the  career  of  character, 
but  no  man  can  say  whither  the  soul  shall  lead. 

Easton  had  studied  Miss  Winter  in  his  superficial  way, 
and  during  the  conversation  just  recorded  he  had  not  failed 
to  observe  the  apparent  care  taken  by  her  to  avoid  mention- 
ing the  name  of  Oswin  Grace.  Some  astute  readers  may 
think  that  there  was  a  reason  for  this  keen-sightedness. 
Perhaps  it  was  so,  but  that  will  be  seen  hereafter.  And 


32O  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

in  anticipation  of  possible  criticism  it  may  be  well  to  rec- 
ognize now  the  probability  that  some  may  think  these 
people  too  subtle  in  their  motives,  too  secret,  too  much 
given  to  concealment  to  be  quite  natural.  Some  may 
opine  that  there  are  too  many  cross-purposes  and  crooked 
answers  in  this  narration  to  be  quite  true  to  life.  But  it 
is  this  very  truth  that  makes  it  so,  for  this  is  no  flight  of 
poesy,  no  idyll  of  the  nineteenth  century,  but  a  plain  rec- 
ord of  such  incidents  as  influenced  the  lives  of  certain 
people,  some  of  whom  will  read  this  page,  while  others 
have  learnt  the  meaning  of  it  all ;  and,  having  received 
understanding,  are  aware  of  those  flaws  in  mortal  life 
which  make  existence  what  it  is.  And  in  self-defense 
let  me  ask  you  if  you  have  never  played  this  same  game 
of  cross-purposes  and  crooked  answers.  Let  me  ask  if 
you  and  your  friends  are  in  the  habit  of  boldly  publishing 
the  inward  thoughts  of  your  hearts  in  order  to  save  others 
from  harboring  error — if  you  have  met  a  maiden  willing 
to  expose  the  inward  secret  of  her  soul  in  order  to  save 
others  from  mistakes.  It  is  a  fruitful  topic,  this  one  of 
mistakes,  and  some  day  I  shall  write  an  astounding  essay 
upon  it  for  an  influential  magazine,  when  requested  to  do 
so  by  its  editor.  Without  mistakes  the  world  would  be  a 
very  different  place  from  what  it  is.  Looking  at  it  from 
a  political  economical  point  of  view  this  state  of  infallibility 
would  be  most  disastrous,  for  the  labor-market  would  be 
overstocked  even  more  than  it  is  at  present.  In  every 
bank,  in  all  large  offices,  are  there  not  a  number  of  clerks 
whose  sole  duty  is  to  seek  for  and  correct  the  mistakes  of 
others?  And  contemplating  it  from  a  social  standpoint, 
many  of  us  would  find  time  hanging  very  heavily  on  our 
hands  had  we  not  such  fruitful  employment  in  the  correc- 
tion of  our  own  mistakes,  the  patching  up  of  our  own 
blunders,  the  elucidating  of  our  own  muddles. 


Easton  Makes  a  Stand.  321 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  was  a  quick  thinker  if  not  a  deep 
one,  and  it  is  those  who  think  quickly  who  give  quickly. 
This  man  had  something  to  give,  something  to  tear  away 
from  his  own  heart  and  hold  out  with  generous  smiling 
eyes,  and  before  Miss  Winter's  door  had  closed  behind 
him  the  sacrifice  was  made.  He  called  a  hansom-cab  and 
drove  straight  to  Tyars'  club.  He  found  his  friend  at 
work  among  his  ship's  papers,  folding  and  making  up  in 
packets  his  receipted  bills. 

"  Morning,"  said  the  Englishman.  "  These  papers  are 
almost  ready  to  be  handed  over  to  you.  All  my  stores 
are  on  board  !  " 

"Ah!" 

Tyars  looked  up  sharply,  and  as  sharply  returned  to  his 
occupation.  Easton  was  grave — an  unusual  occurrence, 
and  Tyars  knew  that  he  had  come  with  news  of  some  sort. 
He  waited,  however,  for  the  American  to  begin,  and 
continued  to  fold  and  arrange  his  papers. 

"  I  have,"  said  Easton,  sitting  down  and  tapping  the 
neat  toe  of  his  boot  with  his  cane,  "  hit  quite  accidentally 
upon  a  discovery  .  .  ." 

"  Poor  chap !  "  muttered  Tyars,  abstractedly. 

"  Which  will  make  a  difference  in  your  crew." 

"  What  ?  "  exclaimed  Tyars,  pausing  in  the  middle  of 
a  knot. 

"  One  rule,"  continued  Easton,  his  queer  little  face 
twisting  and  twinkling  with  some  emotion,  which  he  was 
endeavoring  to  conceal,  "  was  that  no  sweethearts  or 
wives  were  to  be  left  behind." 

"  What  are  you  driving  at?  "  asked  Tyars,  curtly,  in  a 
singularly  lifeless  voice. 

He  was  studying  a  long  ship-chandler's  bill  with  the 
keenness  of  an  accountant. 

"  I  surmise  that  my  recollection  of  that  rule  is  correct." 
21 


322  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Well — "  Easton  paused.  "  Well,  old  man,  I  have 
discovered  a  sweetheart." 

"  Don't  be  an  ass  !  " 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  that 
caused  Easton  to  glance  at  him  keenly  and  then  drop 
entirely  the  semi-bantering  manner  and  assume  one  of 
the  utmost  gravity. 

"  I  objected  to  Grace  at  first,"  he  said,  "  because  he 
had  too  many  women-folk  about  him." 

Tyars  threw  the  papers  in  a  heap  and  rose  suddenly 
from  his  seat.  He  walked  to  the  mantelpiece  and 
selected  a  cigarette  from  a  tin  box  standing  there. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  striking  a  match,  "your  dis- 
covery can  only  relate  to  one  person." 

"  Yes  ;  you  know  whom  I  mean." 

Tyars  nodded  his  head  in  acquiescence  and  continued 
smoking.  The  little  American  sat  looking  in  a  curious 
way  at  this  large,  impassive,  high-bred  Englishman,  as  if 
gathering  enjoyment  and  edification  from  the  study  of  him. 

"  Well,"  he  drawled  at  length,  "  you  say  nothing  !  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  say." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  returned  Easton,  "  there  is  every- 
thing to  say.  That  is  one  of  the  great  mistakes  made  by 
you  English  people.  I  have  noticed  it  since  I  have  been 
in  this  country.  You  take  too  much  for  granted.  You 
let  things  say  themselves  too  much,  and  you  think  it  very 
fine  to  be  impassive  and  apparently  indifferent.  But  it  is 
not  a  fine  thing,  it  is  silly  and  unbusinesslike.  Do  you 
give  up  Oswin  Grace  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ;  if  you  can  get  him  to  stay  behind." 

"  Ya — as  ;  he  is  another  Englishman.  He  will  run  his 
head  against  a  wall  if  he  can.  That  is  to  say  if  there  is  a 
thick  enough  wall  around." 


Easton  Makes  a  Stand.  323 

Tyars  laughed,  and  turned  to  flip  his  cigarette-ash  into 
the  fire. 

"  I  have  tried,"  he  said,   "  to  make  him  give  it  up." 

Easton  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  Indeed  !  upon  what  grounds  ?  " 

"  Upon  the  grounds  that  he  had  ties  at  home  which 
rendered  him  unfit  for  such  service." 

"  Sister  ?  "  inquired  the  American. 

"  Yes  "—slowly—"  sister." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  then  Easton  said  thought- 
fully— 

"  It  is  remarkable  how  much  stronger  an  argument 
somebody  else's  sister  is  in  these  cases." 

"  U — m,"  opined  Tyars,  somewhat  indifferently.  He 
evidently  did  not  know  much  about  the  matter. 

"What  did  Grace  say?"  inquired  the  American, 
calmly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  turned  very  white  about  the 
cheeks,  and  was  evidently  in  a  desperate  fright." 

"  I  suppose — he  is  a  good  man.     The  man  you  want  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  he  is  the  man  I  want." 

Easton  meditated  for  a  few  moments. 

"  And  still  you  will  give  him  up  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  there  are  plenty  of  men  to  be  had." 

"Tyars,  will  you  speak  to  him  again,"  said  Easton, 
rising  and  taking  up  his  hat,  "  and  use  .  .  .  that  other 
argument  ? " 

Tyars  hesitated.  "  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  it  is  my 
business,"  he  said.  "I  hate  meddling  in  other  people's 
affairs,  and  after  all  I  suppose  Grace  knows  best  what  he 
is  doing." 

"  Men  rarely  know  what  they  are  doing  under  these 
circumstances,"  observed  Easton. 

He  waited  patiently,  hat  in  hand,  to  hear  what  Tyars 


324  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

had  to  say.  While  he  stood  there,  Muggins,  the  bull- 
terrier,  rose  from  the  hearthrug,  stretched  himself,  and 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  an  inquiring  and  anticipa- 
tory manner.  He  took  it  to  be  a  question  of  going  for  a 
walk,  and  apparently  imagined  that  the  casting  vote  was 
his. 

"All  right,"  said  Tyars,  suddenly,  "  I  will  speak  to 
him  again  !  " 

"  To-day,"  pursued  Easton,  following  up  his  advantage, 
"  or  to-morrow  at  the  latest." 

"  Yes  ;  to-morrow  at  the  latest." 

Then  the  American  took  his  departure,  and  Muggins 
curled  himself  up  on  the  hearthrug  again  with  a  yawn  of 
disappointment. 

There  are  moments  in  the  lives  of  most  men  when  they 
feel  themselves  impelled  by  some  vague  instinct  to  seek 
advice.  It  does  not  by  any  means  follow  that  they  are 
prepared  to  be  guided  by  such  advice,  nor  are  these  oc- 
casions invariably  critical.  Indeed  most  men  make  the 
greater  decisions  of  their  lives  quite  alone,  seeking  the 
advice  of  none,  following  no  example.  But  in  the  minor 
crises  of  existence,  '  and  more  especially  in  regard  to 
matters  affecting  others  more  than  ourselves,  the  instinc- 
tive gregariousness  of  our  nature  asserts  itself. 

Claud  Tyars  admired  Miss  Winter  more  than  he  admired 
any  woman.  The  power  of  her  clear  practical  intellect 
was  full  of  fascination  for  him,  and  she  was  the  woman 
he  would  have  chosen  to  consult  in  such  questions  as  men 
habitually  consult  women.  In  this  case  it  happened  that 
she  was  just  the  one  person  whose  advice  it  was  impos- 
sible to  seek.  Helen  Grace  could  have  counseled  him 
wisely  and  sweetly,  but  for  reasons  of  his  own  he  set 
aside  unhesitatingly  the  idea  of  questioning  her,  and  he 
knew  that  she  would  never  proffer  advice  unasked. 


Easton  Makes  a  Stand.  325 

This  man  was,  as  he  had  told  Helen  Grace,  quite  alone 
in  the  world.  Coming  as  he  did  from  a  solitude-loving 
stock,  he  was  placed  in  that  grade  of  life  to  which  solitude 
is  most  readily  obtainable.  The  upper  middle-class  gentle- 
man of  England  lives  a  larger  portion  of  his  life  alone  than 
almost  any  class  of  men  on  earth.  Those  above  him  are 
usually  forced  by  their  rank  to  occupy  positions  of  promi- 
nence in  the  world,  are  therefore  public  servants,  and  con- 
sequently at  the  public  beck  and  call.  Those  beneath 
him  are  not  rich  enough  to  purchase  solitude.  They  live 
in  small  houses  surrounded  by  wife  and  children,  within 
call  of  the  servants,  and  not  beyond  the  smell  of  cooking. 

Since  meeting  Matthew  Mark  Easton,  Tyars  had  with- 
drawn himself  from  society  gently  and  persistently,  with 
the  view  of  furthering  his  Quixotic  scheme,  and  in  this 
project  circumstances  were  again  favorable  to  him.  He 
occupied  that  safe  retreat  between  the  haunt  of  the  insup- 
portable society  journalist  and  the  kind-hearted  curiosity 
of  the  bourgeois.  In  all  large  communities  the  art  of 
"  doing  without "  is  highly  cultivated.  It  is  only  in  very 
small  circles  and  in  Scotch  song-books  that  people  are 
missed  for  longer  than  a  few  days.  It  is  a  great  pity  that 
we  have  such  difficulty  in  recognizing  our  own  unimpor- 
tance. If  we  did  so  we  should  be  much  more  independent 
and  study  our  own  inclinations  before  the  consideration 
of  feelings  erroneously  supposed  to  exist  in  the  hearts 
of  our  friends  and  relations. 

Claud  Tyars  was  never  missed,  and  to  do  him  justice 
he  was  supremely  indifferent  on  this  point.  It  was  only 
at  odd  moments  on  shore  when  he  happened  to  be  idle 
during  some  rare  periods  that  he  gave  any  thought  to  the 
loneliness  of  his  life.  And  in  one  respect  he  was  essen- 
tially British  :  namely,  in  the  calm  readiness  with  which 
he  undertook  to  settle  all  questions  for  himself.  When 


326  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

these  questions  affected  his  fellow-men  he  rarely  saw  rea- 
son to  hesitate,  for  most  Englishmen  learn  as  soon  as  they 
leave  the  nursery  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong  ;  what 
is  gentlemanly  and  what  the  reverse.  But  this  knowledge 
from  its  source  can  only  serve  as  a  guide  to  conduct  in  re- 
gard to  men.  At  the  period  when  it  is  really  instilled, 
namely,  during  the  first  few  years  at  school,  woman 
occupies  a  remarkably  obscure  position  in  the  youthful 
mind.  At  no  time  of  man's  life  is  woman  so  unimportant, 
and  therefore  the  boy  learns  and  only  cares  to  learn  be- 
havior towards  his  fellow-men  ;  moreover,  that  which  he 
then  learns  will  go  with  him  through  all  the  fair  weather 
and  the  foul,  through  all  the  storm,  and  through  what  little 
sunshine  there  may  be,  till  the  evening  of  his  life,  and  the 
glow  of  it  will  linger  over  his  memory  as  the  hushed  glow 
of  sunset  lingers  over  a  fading  landscape  and  gives  it 
character. 

It  is  only  later  in  life  that  we  learn  our  manners,  our 
bows  and  smirks,  our  entrances  upon  and  exits  from  the 
broader  stage  of  existence.  It  is  then  that  we  awaken  to 
the  truth  that  while  men  may  be  served  with  honesty, 
women  must  be  treated  with  chivalry.  At  the  same  time 
we  find  out  that  chivalry  and  honesty  are  not  akin,  nor 
near  thereto.  It  is  not  always  kind  to  be  honest,  and  if 
any  man  hesitate  in  the  choice,  let  him  be  chivalrous  and 
he  will  scarcely  rue  it. 

Claud  Tyars  had  not  learnt  chivalry  at  the  best  school, 
his  mother's  knee,  for  he  had  never  stood  there,  and  it 
was  therefore  no  subtle  superficial  acquirement,  but  the 
honest  instinctive  love  of  fair  play  between  strong  and 
weak  that  prompted  him  to  accede  to  Easton's  request. 


And  Tyars  Makes  an  Effort.  327 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

AND  TYARS  MAKES  AN  EFFORT. 

LIKE  most  persons  living  and  acting  alone — gathering  as 
it  were  with  their  own  hands  the  harvest  of  their  own  seed 
— Claud  Tyars  was  remarkable  for  quickness  of  action. 
Having  once  determined  to  make  another  effort  to  rid  him- 
self of  his  invaluable  lieutenant,  he  lost  no  time  in  putting 
his  thoughts  into  deeds.  In  an  hour's  time  he  was  clam- 
bering up  the  smartly-painted  side  of  the  exploring  ship 
Argo.  It  happened  to  be  raining  hard — the  first  tepid  rain 
of  spring,  a  few  weeks  in  advance  of  the  calendar — and  he 
was  clad  in  a  long  oilskin  coat  of  which  one  sleeve  hung 
limp,  for  his  arm  was  not  yet  sufficiently  healed  to  bear 
movement.  Perhaps  these  facts  accounted  for  a  certain 
slowness  of  gait  amounting  almost  to  reluctance  as  he 
walked  aft  towards  the  companion.  He  groped  his  way 
down  the  little  twisting  steps  with  a  clatter  of  strong  boots 
on  the  brass-bound  tread. 

Oswin  Grace  was  seated  in  the  bright  little  cabin  at  a 
table  writing  out  lists  of  stores.  Many  of  these  same 
stores  were  piled  on  the  deck  around  him,  and  there  was 
a  pleasant  odor  of  paraffin-oil  in  the  air. 

"Morning,  old  man!"  he  said  abstractedly,  drawing 
the  scattered  papers  towards  himself  in  a  heap  so  as  to 
make  more  room  on  the  table.  At  times  Oswin  Grace 
felt  almost  familiar  with  his  self-contained  chief. 

"Good  morning,"  answered  Tyars. 


328  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

He  turned  to  hang  up  his  gleaming  oilskin  on  a  hook 
just  outside  the  cabin-door,  then  came  back,  drawing  off 
his  wet  gloves,  which  he  presently  threw  down  on  the 
deck  in  front  of  an  eager  little  copper  stove.  There  was 
already  a  sense  of  homeliness  in  the  manner  with  which 
the  two  men  lived  and  moved  and  had  their  being  in  this 
little  cabin,  and  Tyars  suddenly  became  conscious  of  this. 
He  suddenly  realized  that  the  cabin,  the  ship,  his  whole 
existence  would  not  be  quite  the  same  without  the  com- 
panionship of  this  broad-shouldered  little  English  sailor. 
He  suddenly  became  aware  of  the  perfect  harmony  exist- 
ing between  himself  and  the  man  who  had  given  up  an 
honorable  career  to  follow  him.  Perhaps  he  caught  a 
passing  gleam  of  light  from  the  other's  soul,  and  saw  for 
a  moment  into  the  heart  of  Oswin  Grace,  understanding 
the  difficulties  that  lay  hidden  there.  Sometimes  these 
little  glimpses  of  life  from  another  point  of  view  are 
vouchsafed  to  us,  and  we  hover  on  the  brink  of  seeing 
ourselves  as  others  see  us.  Perhaps  Claud  Tyars  recog- 
nized then  the  great  difficulty  attached  to  the  occupation 
of  a  subordinate  position,  especially  in  subordination  to 
a  man  like  himself.  An  incompetent  second-fiddler  may 
make  matters  extremely  inharmonious.  Tyars  leant  over 
the  table  and  examined  one  or  two  accounts  in  a  desul- 
tory manner. 

"Grace  !  "  he  said. 

"  Adsum,"  replied  his  companion,  cheerfully,  without 
ceasing  his  work. 

Tyars  closed  the  cabin-door  with  his  elbow. 

"  I  do  not  see,"  he  said,  slowly  and  uncomfortably, 
"  how  you  can  very  well  go  with  us." 

Grace  laid  aside  his  pen  and  raised  his  keen  gray 
eyes.  His  brow  was  wrinkled,  his  lips  set,  his  eyes  full 
of  fight. 


And  Tyars  Makes  an  Effort.  329 

"Why?" 

"  Because  .  .  ." 

Tyars  hesitated,  and  the  two  Englishmen  remained 
thus  for  some  seconds,  each  reading  the  thoughts  of  the 
other  as  best  he  might, and  very  imperfectly  at  the  best. 

"Because,"  suggested  Grace  in  a  hard  voice,  "  I  am 
in  love  with  Agnes  Winter  ?  " 

Tyars  nodded  his  head  and  stooped  to  pick  up  his  gloves, 
holding  them  subsequently  close  to  the  bars  of  the  stove, 
where  they  steamed  gaily.  There  was  a  silence  of  some 
duration,  and  every  second  increased  the  discomfort  of 
Claud  Tyars. 

"  And  you,"  continued  Grace  at  length  very  deliber- 
ately, "  love  Helen  !  " 

Tyars  stood  upright  so  that  his  head  was  very  near  the 
beams.  He  thrust  his  gloves  into  his  pocket  and  stood 
for  some  seconds  grasping  his  short  pointed  beard  medi- 
tatively with  his  uninjured  hand. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  do." 

Grace  returned  to  his  ship-chandler's  bills  with  the  air 
of  a  barrister  who,  having  established  his  point,  thinks  it 
prudent  to  allow  time  for  it  to  sink  into  the  brains  of 
judge  and  jury. 

"  I  do  not  mind  telling  you,"  he  added  carelessly,  al- 
most too  carelessly,  "that  Miss  Winter — is  perfectly  in- 
different on  the  subject." 

"  Do  you  know  that  for  certain  ?  "  asked  Tyars, 
sharply. 

"  She  told  me  so  herself,"  answered  Grace,  with  a 
peculiar  little  laugh  which  was  not  pleasant  to  the  ear. 

He  waited  obviously  for  a  reciprocal  confidence  on  the 
part  of  Tyars,  but  he  waited  in  vain.  The  habit  of  non- 
communicativeness  is  one  of  very  quick  growth  and  its 
roots  are  deep.  The  silence  of  Qswin  Grace  asked  as 


33o  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

distinctly  as  words  could  have  done,  "  Is  Helen  as  indif- 
ferent as  Agnes  Winter  ?  " — and  Tyars  was  conscious  of 
the  question.  He  even  made  an  effort  to  tear  down  the 
barrier  that  fenced  his  heart  round,  but  an  old  habit  is  a 
strong  antagonist.  He  could  not  overcome  that  deep-seated 
dislike  to  the  discussion  of  all  things  appertaining  to 
thoughts  or  feelings,  which  is  so  characteristic  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  race.  But  he  tacitly  abandoned  all  attempts 
then  and  for  ever  to  induce  Oswin  Grace  to  relinquish 
his  purpose.  It  was  a  tame  ending  to  all  his  resolutions, 
but  his  hands  were  tied,  the  wind  was  knocked  out  of 
his  sails,  the  tables  were  turned  upon  him. 

Claud  Tyars  was  not  one  of  those  fatuous  young  men 
who  imagine  that  they  can  conceal  anything  for  very  long 
from  the  world.  But  he  had  hitherto  been  under  the 
impression  that  his  love  for  Helen  Grace  was  a  matter 
known  only  to  himself  and  Helen,  suspected  only  by  Miss 
Winter.  And  after  all,  if  a  man  makes  a  point  of  avoid- 
ing entirely  the  woman  he  loves,  and  thus  does  away 
with  the  danger  of  betraying  himself  in  her  presence  by 
manner,  speech,  or  silence,  he  is  assuredly  justified  in 
priding  himself  on  the  security  of  his  secret.  Tyars 
could  tell  on  the  fingers  of  his  two  hands  the  number  of 
times  he  had  spoken  to  Helen  Grace  since  his  return  to 
England,  and  one  hand  would  suffice  to  numerate  the  in- 
terviews which  had  taken  place  in  the  presence  of  Oswin. 
It  is  possible  that  in  the  elaboration  of  his  plans  for  con- 
cealing his  love  from  Helen  herself  and  keeping  it  hidden 
from  the  keen  eyes  of  Miss  Winter  and  Matthew  Mark 
Easton,  he  had  overlooked  the  man  who,  while  quietly 
working  at  his  side,  was  acquiring  a  fuller  cognizance  of 
his  plans,  and  hopes,  and  fears  than  that  possessed  by 
the  American  himself.  This  was  very  likely,  because  it 
is  a  mistake  we  make  every  day  of  our  lives.  We  are 


And  Tyars  Makes  an  Effort.  331 

always  looking  into  distances  and  neglecting  that  which 
is  near  at  hand. 

Oswin  Grace  was  the  first  to  speak,  quietly  shelving 
his  own  affairs  with  that  philosophy  of  resignation  which 
is  best  understood  by  those  who  have  been  brought  to 
manhood  under  discipline. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no  desire  to  meddle 
with  your  affairs.  I  ask  no  questions,  and  I  look  for  no 
spontaneous  confidences.  It  will  be  better  for  you  to 
lose  sight  altogether  of  the  coincidence  that  I  am — her 
brother." 

Tyars  had  seated  himself  on  the  corner  of  the  cabin- 
table,  with  his  back  half  turned  towards  his  companion. 
He  had  picked  up  a  piece  of  straw,  of  which  there  was  a 
quantity  lying  on  table  and  floor,  and  this  he  was  biting 
meditatively.  It  was  as  yet  entirely  a  puzzle  to  him, 
and  this  was  only  a  new  complication.  He  could  not 
understand  it,  just  as  better  men  than  Claud  Tyars  have 
failed  to  understand  it  all  through.  For  no  one,  I  take  it, 
does  understand  love,  and  no  man  can  say  whither  it  will 
lead. 

"  There  need,"  'continued  Oswin  Grace,  perforating 
a  series  of  small  holes  in  his  blotting-paper  with  the  point 
of  a  cedar-wood  pencil,  "be  no  nonsense  of  that  sort.  I 
am  not  going  to  take  it  upon  myself  to  watch  over  Helen's 
interests ;  they  are  much  safer  in  your  hands  than  in 
mine." 

Still  Tyars  said  nothing,  and  after  a  little  pause  Grace 
went  on  in  measured,  thoughtful  tones,  carrying  with 
them  the  weight  of  deliberation. 

"There  is  one  point,"  he  said,  "upon  which  I  think 
there  must  be  an  understanding." 

"Yes,"  said  Tyars,  anxiously. 

"  Any  risks — extra  risks,  such  as   boat- work,  night- 


332  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

work  up  aloft — these  must  be  mine.  From  what  you 
have  said  I  gather  that  your  intention  was  to  be  skipper, 
and  yet  do  the  rough  work  as  well.  When  anything 
hazardous  is  to  be  done,  I  shall  do  it.  You  must  stick  to 
the  ship." 

The  big  man  gave  a  little  annoyed  laugh. 

"  It  is  your  duty  not  only  towards — her,  but  towards 
the  rest  of  us.  A  skipper  has  no  right  to  risk  his  life  if 
he  can  get  some  one  of  less  value  to  risk  his." 

"I  am  not  aware  of  any  intention  to  deprive  you  of 
your  share  of  the  dirty  work." 

"  You  are  not  conscious  of  it,  you  mean,  old  fellow  !  " 
corrected  Grace,  "  but  I  am.  I  have  been  conscious  of  it 
all  along.  I  have  got  my  knife  into  you  now,  and  if  you 
do  not  submit  I  shall  woggle  it  about  and  cause  you  some 
discomfort." 

The  words  were  spoken  pleasantly,  almost  playfully  ; 
but  Tyars  turned  in  some  vague  astonishment  to  look  at 
his  companion,  and  saw  a  look  in  the  keen  gray  eyes 
which  he  had  not  perceived  there  since  Oswin  Grace 
took  command  of  the  Martial  over  his  head.  It  was  not 
defiance,  for  English  eyes  do  not  look  defiance  except  in 
books  ;  but  it  breathed  that  high-born  quiet  determination 
which  knows  exactly  where  to  draw  the  line  between 
discipline  and  servitude. 

Tyars  laughed  and  turned  away  his  glance.  It  was  a 
bold  stroke,  and  Oswin  Grace  had  dealt  it  diplomatically  ; 
for  the  feeling  of  tension  that  had  been  in  the  atmosphere 
of  the  little  cabin  seemed  to  relax,  and  a  fuller  under- 
standing crept  in  between  the  two  men. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Tyars,  seating  himself  at  the 
table  and  beginning  to  open  his  letters,  "  that  we  are  all 
constructing  a  very  fine  mountain  out  of  materials  in- 
tended for  a  mole-hill.  1  for  one  have  no  intention  of 


And  Tyars  Makes  an  Effort.  333 

leaving  my  bones  in  the  far  North.  There  is  no  reason 
why  we  should  not  all  be  back  home  by  this  time  next 
year." 

"  None  at  all,"  agreed  Oswin,  somewhat  perfunctorily, 
adding  with  a  suspicion  of  doubt  the  next  minute,  "  Sup- 
pose we  succeed  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  then  ?  " 

"  Suppose  we  get  there  all  right,  rescue  the  men  and 
go  on  safely ;  we  get  over  the  elemental  danger,  and 
then  we  have  to  face  the  political,  which  is  worse." 

"  I  do  not  see  it,"  replied  Tyars.  "  We  sell  the  ship 
at  San  Francisco.  Half  the  crew  expect  to  be  paid  off 
there,  the  other  half  will  disperse  with  their  passage- 
money  in  their  pockets,  and  very  few  of  them  will  find 
their  way  back  to  England.  Our  doctor  is  a  German 
Socialist,  with  several  aliases  ;  our  second  mate  a  simple- 
minded  Norwegian  whaling-skipper.  The  exiles  do  not 
know  a  word  of  English,  or  pretend  they  do  not,  and 
none  of  the  crew  speak  Russian.  There  will  be  abso- 
lutely no  intercourse  on  board,  and  only  you,  the  doctor, 
and  myself  will  ever  know  who  the  rescued  men  really 
are.  The  crew  will  imagine  that  they  are  the  survivors 
of  a  Russian  ivory-hunting  expedition,  and  if  the  truth 
ever  comes  out  it  will  be  impossible  to  prove  that  you  and 
1  knew  better." 

"  But  it  will  not  be  easy  to  keep  the  newspapers 
quiet." 

"  We  shall  not  attempt  to  keep  them  quiet.  It  will 
only  be  a  local  matter.  The  San  Francisco  papers  will 
publish  libelous  woodcuts  of  our  countenances  and  a  col- 
umn or  two  purporting  to  be  biographical,  but  the  world 
will  be  little  the  wiser.  In  America  such  matters  are  in- 
teresting only  in  so  much  as  they  are  personal,  and  there 
is  in  reality  nothing  easier  than  the  suppression  of  one's 


334  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

personality.  There  is  no  difficulty  in  kicking  an  inter- 
viewer out  of  the  room,  just  as  one  would  kick  out  any  in- 
truder ;  and  we  are  quite  indifferent  as  to  whether  the 
American  newspapers  abuse  us  or  not  after  having  been 
kicked.  As  to  the  details  of  the  voyage,  I  shall  with- 
hold those  with  the  view  of  publishing  a  book,  which  is 
quite  the  correct  thing  to  do  nowadays.  The  book  shall 
always  be  in  course  of  preparation,  and  will  never  ap- 
pear." 

In  this  wise  the  two  men  continued  talking,  planning, 
scheming,  all  the  morning,  while  they  worked  methodi- 
cally and  prosaically.  Whatever  mistakes  they  may  have 
made,  however  Quixotic  they  may  have  been,  there  was 
no  fault  to  find  in  the  manner  in  which  they  fitted  up 
their  ship  and  mapped  out  each  detail  of  their  expedition. 
Whatever  else  they  may  have  been,  they  were  good  sail- 
ors ;  and  that  is  sufficient  praise  for  most  men. 

They  carefully  confined  their  conversation  to  the  future, 
and  avoided  all  reference  to  those  subjects  which  had  been 
so  lamely  and  scrappily  discussed  earlier  in  the  day.  Hav- 
ing set  their  hands  to  the  plow,  they  seemed,  alike, 
nervously  determined  to  look  always  ahead,  ignoring  and 
quelling  all  thought  of  what  they  were  leaving  behind 
them. 


The  Eleventh  of  March.  335 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE  ELEVENTH  OF  MARCH. 

EVEN  the  watched  pot  boils  in  time.  There  comes  an 
end  to  all  things.  The  painter  finally  lays  aside  his 
brush  ;  the  writer  at  last  presses  his  blotting-paper  over 
"  Finis."  The  composer  must  some  day  dot  in  the  last 
chord  to  his  opera.  And  these  men  in  reaching  the  close 
of  their  labor  complete  an  era  of  their  lives.  The  printer 
also  sets  up  "  Finis  "  in  his  type,  but  that  action  is  no 
item  in  his  existence.  It  is  only  the  end  of  a  creation  that 
leaves  its  mark  upon  the  heart ; — it  is  only  those  who 
create  who  lose  something  when  their  work  is  done — 
who  pass  on  in  life  with  a  sense  of  vacancy  somewhere 
in  their  being.  For  that  creation,  whether  it  be  picture, 
book,  or  opus,  is  part  of  the  man ;  it  has  the  scent  and 
impress  of  his  Soul,  and  from  his  Soul  a  portion  of  its  vir- 
tue has  gone  out.  And  yet  the  completed  work  is  always 
there — the  creator  is  always  conscious  of  its  presence,  of 
its  companionship  in  the  world — though  it  stand  neglected 
on  a  shelf,  or  hang  unseen  in  a  picture-seller's  back 
shop. 

Men  who  have  conceived  and  have  finally  brought  to 
completion  some  great  scheme  are  partakers  in  this  feel- 
ing. They  too  know  the  joy  of  creation — perhaps  they 
taste  the  sweetness  of  success.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
they  do,  because  success  is  their  guiding-star ;  it  is  more 


336  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

necessary  to  them  than  to  the  artist,  who  finds  joy  in  the 
act  of  producing  alone. 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  did  not  claim  for  his  scheme  the 
magnitude  of  a  life-long  dream.  It  had  been  conceived  in 
idleness,  and  of  leisure  it  was  the  fruit.  But  he  had  lived 
with  it  night  and  day  for  nearly  three  years,  until  he  had 
fallen  into  the  habit  of  thinking  of  little  else.  He  had  ac- 
quired that  lamentable  custom  of  looking  on  men  and  things 
from  one  point  of  view  only — taking  interest  or  feeling  in- 
difference in  both  only  as  possible  factors.  But  he  was 
unconscious  of  it  all.  Like  most  eloquent  men  he  was  ig- 
norant of  the  distance  that  he  might  carry  others  by  his 
words,  and  remain  unmoved  himself.  He  had  carried 
Claud  Tyars,  who  in  turn  had  dragged  him  after,  not  by 
eloquence,  but  by  the  silent  force  of  an  absorbed  will. 

When  Easton  woke  up  on  the  eleventh  morning  of 
March  he  was  conscious  of  a  certain  unsteadiness  of  pur- 
pose in  minor  matters.  He  failed  to  dress  himself  with 
the  quick  completeness  which  usually  characterized  his 
toilet.  He  meditated  over  his  ablutions  and  dawdled 
with  his  razor.  His  hand  was  not  only  slow,  but  dis- 
tinctly shaky,  and  he  came  very  near  to  bloodshed.  He 
stepped  to  the  window  and  contemplated  the  heavens  of  a 
pearly  green — such  as  goes  by  the  name  of  blue  sky  in 
London — and  this  was  a  man  who  never  displayed  the 
slightest  interest  in  barometrical  matters. 

This  day,  the  eleventh  of  March,  was  fixed  for  the  sail- 
ing of  the  Argo  exploring  vessel,  and  Easton's  chief 
thought  on  the  subject  was  a  vague  wonder  as  to  what  he 
would  do  with  himself  after  she  had  gone.  This  little  man 
rather  prided  himself  upon  the  possession  of  a  hard  and 
impregnable  nineteenth-century  heart.  He  took  a  certain 
small  pleasure  in  the  reflection  that  he  was  as  nearly  in- 
dependent as  it  is  possible  for  any  human  being  to  be. 


The  Eleventh  of  March.  337 

Although  he  was  naturally  of  a  gregarious  and  sociable 
habit,  he  held  in  reserve  the  thought  that  the  practise  of 
sociability  was  with  him  merely  a  matter  of  expediency, 
and  not  of  necessity  as  it  is  with  some.  He  could  drop  all 
his  acquaintances  at  a  moment's  notice  and  never  feel  the 
loss.  In  fact  he  had  of  late  cherished  the  idea  of  going  to 
San  Francisco  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  Argo.  He  at  all 
events  was  sanguine  of  success. 

And  yet  he  was  distinctly  disturbed  this  morning  of  the 
eleventh  of  March — disturbed,  that  is  to  say,  for  a  man 
devoid  of  human  tie  or  sympathy.  It  is  possible  that  he 
was  surprised  at  himself,  and  perhaps  annoyed,  for  he 
whistled  persistently  and  somewhat  aggressively  while  he 
dressed. 

The  Argo  was  to  pass  out  of  the  tidal  basin  into  the 
river  at  one  o'clock,  and  at  half-past  twelve  Easton  drove 
up  to  the  dock-gates.  He  brought  with  him  the  last  items 
of  the  ship's  outfit  in  the  shape  of  a  pile  of  newspapers, 
and  a  bunch  of  hot-house  roses  for  the  cabin-table,  for 
there  was  to  be  a  luncheon-party  on  board  while  steaming 
down  the  river. 

He  found  Admiral  Grace  strolling  about  the  deck  with 
Tyars,  conversing  in  quite  a  friendly  way,  and  endeavor- 
ing honestly  to  suppress  his  contempt  for  seamanship  of 
so  young  a  growth  as  that  of  his  companion.  The  ladies 
were  below,  inspecting  the  ship  under  Oswin's  guidance. 

The  little  vessel  lay  snugly  under  the  high  stone  quay, 
and  presented  the  appearance  of  some  quaint,  old-fashioned 
little  man-of-war,  so  spotless  were  her  decks,  so  mathe- 
matically correct  the  coiling  of  every  rope,  so  bright  her 
brass-work.  One  could  have  guessed  that  her  first  officer 
had  served  under  the  white  ensign. 

A  few  idlers  stood  on  the  quay  with  that  peaceful  sense 
of  contemplation  which  comes  to  men  who  pass  their  lives 
22 


338  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

near  water,  and  exchanged  gruff  monosyllables  of  approval 
at  long  and  uncertain  intervals  ;  varying  the  same  with  an 
interchange  of  quids,  and  sociable  expectoration. 

Easton  joined  the  two  sailors  after  having  dropped  the 
roses  and  newspapers  through  the  open  cabin-skylight, 
and  his  presence  was  somewhat  a  relief  to  both. 

"She  is,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  admiral 
with  transatlantic  courtesy,  "  a  strange  mixture  of  the 
man-of-war  and  the  yacht — do  you  not  find  it  so,  sir  ?  " 

"  She  is,"  answered  the  old  gentleman,  guardedly,  "  one 
of  the  most  complete  vessels  I  have  ever  boarded — though 
her  outward  appearance  is  of  course  against  her." 

"  One  can  detect,"  continued  the  American,  looking 
round  with  a  musing  eye,  "the  influence  of  a  naval 
officer." 

The  old  gentleman  softened  visibly.  He  had  been 
guilty  of  allowing  it  to  be  understood  by  several  of  his 
friends  that  his  son  Oswin  was  virtually  in  command  of 
this  vessel,  while  Claud  Tyars  was  merely  the  leader  of 
the  expedition.  The  remembrance  of  this  lapse  had  been 
brought  back  rather  rudely  to  his  conscience  during  the 
short  colloquy  that  had  been  interrupted  by  the  advent  of 
Easton,  and  the  admiral  was  just  beginning  to  smart  under 
a  realization  of  Oswin's  comparative  unimportance.  This 
impression  had  certainly  not  been  conveyed  with  intention 
for  Tyars  was  perfectly  ignorant  of  its  existence.  The 
simple  truth  was  that  he  was  a  commander  by  nature, 
while  Oswin  Grace  was  cast  in  a  different  mold.  The 
naval  officer  was  an  excellent  subordinate,  and  in  order  to 
excel  in  this  difficult  line  it  is  essential  to  appear  unim- 
portant. The  value  of  a  good  subordinate  should  be 
known  alone  to  his  immediate  superior — the  general  pub 
lie  should  be  unsuspicious  of  his  worth.  This  was  pre- 
cisely the  position  of  Oswin  Grace,  and  looking  at  it  from 


The  Eleventh  of  March.  339 

a  naval  point  of  view,  it  was  not  untinged  with  humiliation. 
Contemplated  from  a  common-sense  standpoint  it  could 
scarcely  have  been  improved  upon ;  but  old  gentlemen 
(like  young  ones)  do  not  always  take  this  point  of 
view. 

"  Even  to  a  landlubber  like  myself,"  said  Easton  glibly, 
"that  influence  is  apparent." 

At  this  moment  the  ladies  appeared,  escorted  by  Oswin 
Grace — Miss  Winter  first,  with  a  searching  little  smile  in 
her  eyes.  Easton  saw  that  she  was  very  much  on  the 
alert. 

"  I  feel  quite  at  home,"  she  said  to  him,  looking  round 
her,  "  although  there  are  so  many  changes." 

"  So  do  I ;  the  more  so  because  the  changes  have  been 
made  under  my  own  directions." 

They  walked  aft,  leaving  the  rest  of  the  party  standing 
together.  As  they  walked  Oswin  Grace  watched  them 
with  a  singular  light  in  his  clear  gray  eyes,  singular  be- 
cause gray  eyes  rarely  glisten,  they  only  darken  at  times. 
Miss  Winter  and  her  companion,  in  silence,  watched  the 
pier-head  hand  cast  off  the  last  hawser — the  last  link  be- 
tween the  Argo  and  terra-firma.  It  happened  that  the 
rest  of  the  party  were  doing  the  same  in  a  mechanically 
interested  way. 

"  Does  she  seem  to  you,"  asked  Easton,  suddenly, 
"  like  an  unfortunate  ship  ?  " 

The  Gravesend  pilot  who  was  standing  near  to  them 
shouted  some  instructions  to  the  master  of  the  tug  in  such 
stentorian  tones  that  Miss  Winter  was  compelled  to  wait 
a  few  moments  until  he  had  finished  his  observations. 

As  she  answered,  the  paddles  of  the  tug  revolved  with 
a  splash  ;  the  tow-rope  seethed  out  of  the  water,  and  the 
Argo  moved  perceptibly. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "there  is  a  reassuring  air  of — 


340  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

of  something  stronger  than  savoir-faire  about  the  ship 
which  I  like." 

"  Savoir-faire,"  he  suggested,  "  not  only  savoir-dire." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  comprehensive  little 
nod ;  and  they  stood  watching  the  tactics  of  the  ship's 
crew  and  the  dock-hands  without  understanding  very 
much. 

Oswin  Grace  had  gone  forward  on  to  the  diminutive  old- 
fashioned  forecastle.  Claud  Tyars  stood  beside  the  pilot, 
while  the  whaling-captain  was  not  far  off.  There  was 
singularly  little  shouting.  Tyars  and  Grace  never  opened 
their  lips.  Once  Tyars  made  a  little  movement  with  his 
hand  which  was  rotatory  in  its  tendency.  Grace  an- 
swered with  a  nod,  and  spoke  quietly  to  a  man  beside  him, 
who  immediately  set  a  small  steam-winch  to  work.  For 
some  moments  there  was  no  sound  except  the  convulsive 
grunts  of  the  winch,  and  these  were  finally  arrested  by  a 
motion  of  Tyars's  hand.  These  two  men  had  slept  the 
night  before  in  the  West  End  of  London  ;  they  had  put  on 
their  clothes  there  a  few  hours  before,  and  in  the  way  in 
which  they  wore  these  clothes  (by  no  means  maritime  in 
cut)  there  was  that  ineffaceable  stamp  of  the  British  sports- 
man with  which  one  comes  into  contact  in  many  strange 
places. 

Presently  the  vessel  glided  smoothly  between  the  slimy 
gates  out  into  the  open  river.  The  tow-line  was  cast  off, 
and  the  Argo's  engines  started.  The  vessel  swung  slowly 
round  on  the  greasy  waters,  pointing  her  blunt  stubborn 
prow  down  the  misty  river.  She  settled  to  her  work 
with  a  docile  readiness,  like  a  farmer's  mare  on  the  out- 
ward road. 

"  This  is  a  new  experience  for  you,"  said  Easton,  with 
the  faint  American  tinge  which  came  to  his  tongue  in 
unguarded  moments. 


The  Eleventh  of  March.  341 

"Yes,"  Miss  Winter  answered,  "I  did  not  want  to 
come." 

"  Ah  !  " — he  looked  up  aloft  where  a  boy  was  at  work 
on  a  tiny  yard-arm.  She  did  not  however  continue,  so  he 
encouraged  her.  "  Why  did  you  not  want  to  come  ?  " 

"  I  knew  we  should  be  horribly  in  the  way.  1  am  al- 
ways conscious  of  being  in  the  way  on  a  ship  that  is  not 
securely  tied  down  all  round — moored,  I  mean." 

"  I  do  not  detect  any  signs  of  annoyance  on  the  part  of 
the — executive. ' ' 

"No,"  admitted  Miss  Winter.  "One  would  say  that 
it  had  all  been  carefully  rehearsed." 

"  Then  what  is  the  true  reason  ?  "  he  inquired,  coolly 
— almost  too  coolly  for  a  man  of  his  temperament. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  am  nervous.  I  dislike  the  drama- 
tic .  .  ." 

"  The  unrehearsed  ?  "  he  suggested. 

She  gave  a  little  laugh  and  turned  away  to  look  at  a 
brown-sailed  barge  which  was  scudding  across  the  river 
astern  of  them. 

"  Yes,  the  unrehearsed." 

"  But,"  he  said,  "there  is  no  ckama.  We  are  a  light- 
comedy  company.  We  make  nice  little  jokes  and  laugh  at 
them  enthusiastically.  I  surmise,  at  least,  that  we  shall 
do  so.  The  corners  of  my  mouth  are  beginning  to  turn  up 
already." 

"  I  came  on  board,"  said  Miss  Winter,  gravely,  "  with 
a  broad  smile  which  I  expected  to  last  me  all  day  but  it 
appears  to  have  faded." 

He  looked  at  her  critically  in  his  peculiar  twinkling  way, 
not  untinged  however  with  concern. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  "it  has.  You  must  polish  it  up 
for  luncheon.  I  intend  to  be  intensely  funny,  and  I  guess 
you  will  have  to  laugh." 


342  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Tyars  will  be  of  no  assistance." 

"  Not  of  the  very  smallest.  He  is  not  good  at  that 
sort  of  thing — deep  people,  I  take  it,  never  are  ;  it  is  only 
shallow  water  that  sparkles  in  a  breeze." 

"  I  am  still  of  opinion  that  it  is  a  pity  we  came,"  said 
the  lady,  making  a  little  movement  to  join  the  other  group. 
Perhaps  she  was  conscious  of  Oswin's  occasional  glances 
in  her  direction,  but  if  she  was  there  was  nothing  in  her 
manner  to  betray  it. 

"  I  always  was  of  that  opinion,"  admitted  the  Ameri- 
can, following  her,  "  but  I  could  not  prevent  it." 

Then  they  joined  Admiral  Grace  and  Helen.  Pres- 
ently, and  before  any  conversation  had  passed,  Tyars 
and  Oswin  came  up  together.  Helen  was  standing 
slightly  apart,  and  the  delicately  embarrassed  interest 
which  she  was  still  showing  in  everything,  was  not  the 
strangeness  of  a  landswoman  to  all  things  maritime  ;  it 
was  a  new-born  shyness  which  she  could  not  have  de- 
fined herself — a  sudden  maidenly  fear  of  betraying  too 
great  an  interest  in  any  one  man,  or  the  handiwork  of 
any  one  man.  Whatever  it  may  have  been,  it  lent  an 
additional  fascination  to  her  grave  young  face  for  the  con- 
trolled shyness  of  a  man  or  woman  is  always  pleasant  to 
meet.  To  Helen  Grace  it  was  infinitely  becoming,  it  sug- 
gested in  some  subtle  way  the  glow  of  youth,  the  fresh 
savor  of  inexperience.  She  must  have  looked  like  that  at 
her  first  ball,  when  gaslight  had  no  suggestion  of  its  native 
coal ;  when  smiles  were  only  smiles,  and  never  masks  ; 
when  she  had  been  happy  to  take  the  surface  of  things. 

Tyars  approached  her,  and  stood  by  her  side  with  that 
grave  attention  which  a  preoccupied  man  accords  to 
those  women  who  command  his  respect.  Then  suddenly, 
in  his  abrupt  way,  he  spoke. 

"  You  will  never  see  this  ship  again,"  he  said. 


The  Eleventh  of  March.  343 

She  made  a  little  movement  with  her  head  and  throat, 
as  if  a  sudden  chill  had  caused  her  to  shiver. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  We  are  going  to  sell  her  out  there — at  San  Francisco." 

"  Ah — yes,"  she  murmured  with  evident  relief. 

The  effort  to  talk  of  commonplace  matters  in  a  common- 
place way  was  a  trifle  en  evidence  on  both  sides. 

"  Do  you  admire  the  ship  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  steadily 
at  her  as  one  looks  at  one's  partner  when  the  game  hangs 
on  a  balance.  "  What  is  your  opinion  of  her  ?  " 

The  girl  made  an  effort. 

"  Oh,"  she  replied  with  a  clear,  firm  smile,  "  Of  course 
I  know  nothing  about  it ;  but  my  first  impression  was 
surprise  at  her  diminutiveness.  She  still  seems  to  me 
absurdly  small.  I  am  wofully  ignorant  on  nautical  mat- 
ters, and  size  appeals  to  me  as  safety." 

"  In  this  case  size  has  little  to  do  with  safety.  In  fact, 
the  smaller  we  are  the  stronger  we  shall  be,  as  long  as  we 
can  carry  all  we  wish.  We  have  sent  on  our  coal,  you 
know,  by  another  steamer." 

"  To  wait  for  you?  " 

"  Yes,  to  wait  for  me — for  us." 

It  was  a  foolish  mistake  to  make,  but  it  was  just  one  of 
those  mistakes  which  the  tongue  sometimes  takes  it  upon 
itself  to  perpetrate,  and  the  brain,  however  alert  it  may 
be,  is  for  the  moment  paralyzed.  It  is  a  dangerous  pas- 
time to  think  of  one  thing  and  to  talk  of  another.  Some 
of  us  pride  ourselves  that  we  can  keep  up  one  conversation 
and  listen  to  another  at  the  same  time. 

Claud  Tyars  had  been  talking  with  his  brain  while  his 
tongue  was  listening  to  his  heart ;  and  it  was  singular  how 
complete  his  betrayal  was.  So  small  a  slip  might  easily 
have  passed  unnoticed,  but  before  he  had  even  time  to 
alter  the  pronoun  Helen  changed  color.  He  heard  the 


344  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

quick,  gasping  breath,  and  although  he  did  not  dare  to 
look  in  her  direction,  he  was  conscious  of  her  quickly 
averted  face. 

Taking  into  consideration  the  social  experience  they 
must  both  have  possessed — considering  that  they  had 
danced  together  eight  years  before — they  were  singularly 
gauches.  They  did  a  very  unwise  thing ;  they  allowed 
the  incident  to  be  magnified  into  a  silence — one  of  those 
horrid  silences  which  come  in  times  of  pressure,  when 
there  is  a  strain  in  the  atmosphere. 

Parting  words  may  be  very  sad,  very  weighty,  very 
eloquent,  but  they  are  infinitely  kinder  than  parting 
silences.  Which  think  you  to  be  more  weighty  ;  the  few 
broken  words  of  a  dying  man — the  recommendations,  the 
instructions,  the  advice — or  the  breathless  silence  when 
he  sinks  back  on  the  weary  pillow,  and  in  the  concentra- 
tion of  his  eyes  one  can  read  all  that  is  unsaid — all  that  is 
never  said  in  this  world,  and  for  which  there  can  be  no 
need  in  the  next?  It  was  Claud  Tyars  who  finally  spoke. 

"  Come,"  he  said  with  a  peculiar  twisted  smile  ;  "  lun- 
cheon is  ready.  Let  us  lead  the  way,  and  the  others  will 
follow." 


Off !  345 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
OFF! 

HAD  an  acute  but  uninitiated  observer  been  introduced 
into  the  little  cabin  of  the  Argo  during  the  consumption  of 
the  delicate  repast  provided  by  her  officers,  he  or  she 
could  scarcely  have  failed  to  notice  a  certain  recklessness 
of  hilarity  among  the  party  assembled.  Admiral  Grace 
was  the  only  one  who  really  did  justice  to  the  steward's 
maiden  and  supreme  effort,  and  he  in  consequence  was 
singular  in  failing  to  appreciate  the  witticisms  of  Matthew 
Mark  Easton  and  Oswin  Grace.  This  was  perhaps  owing 
to  the  fact  that  when  we  have  passed  the  half-way  mile- 
stone in  life  we  fail  to  appreciate  the  most  brilliant  con- 
versation if  it  be  served  up  with  savory  viands  and  choice 
wine.  This,  I  say,  was  perhaps  the  reason  ;  for  we  can- 
not always  tell  how  much  silent  old  gentlemen  see  and 
note  while  enjoying  the  fullest  flavor  of  their  sherry.  It 
is  just  possible  that  Admiral  Grace  did  not  think  very 
much  of  the  wit — taken  as  wit  pure  and  simple.  His 
position  was  not  unique.  You  and  I,  mon  vieux,  know 
perhaps  something  about  it.  We  also  may  have  found 
ourselves  in  the  midst  of  a  party  of  young  people  who 
seem  to  have  an  object  in  attempting  very  lamely  to  de- 
ceive each  other.  We  also  may  have  listened  to  very 
feeble  witticisms  recognized  by  silvery  laughter  that 
follows  too  quickly  on  the  heels  of  the  sally  to  be  natural, 
and  we  also  may  have  turned  philosophically  to  the  menu 


346  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

with  a  feeling  that  something  was  going  on — something 
vague  and  subtle,  fit  only  for  young  minds  to  understand. 

Once  or  twice  Easton's  words  recurred  to  Miss  Winter : 
"  I  intend  to  be  intensely  funny,  and  I  guess  you  will 
have  to  laugh."  This  was  her  cue,  and  she  acted  up 
to  it. 

On  the  finite  principle  the  meal  came  to  an  end  also, 
and  a  move  was  made.  There  was  nothing  else  to  do 
but  to  go  on  deck,  which  was  not  so  unpleasant  a  resort  as 
it  might  have  been  with  an  east  wind.  The  admiral  and 
Easton  were  accommodated  with  cigars,  the  ladies  with 
deck-chairs,  under  the  friendly  cover  of  a  windsail .  There 
happened  to  be  very  few  steamers  going  down  the  river, 
and  the  Argo  glided  forward  on  the  unctuously  moving 
water  with  that  semi-helpless  clumsiness  which  charac- 
terizes the  movement  of  a  steamer  on  the  bosom  of  a 
strong  tide.  In  certain  reaches  of  the  river  they  were 
quite  alone,  and  only  at  times  they  passed  a  Medway  sail- 
ing-barge floating  down  to  Sheerness.  Occasionally  a 
bluff  weather-beaten  fish-carrier,  or  a  tall-funneled  tug 
would  steam  busily  past  them,  up-stream  ;  but  for  the 
time  all  the  ocean  traffic  seemed  to  be  suspended.  Doubt- 
less the  inward-bound  liners  were  lying  miles  below,  at 
Gravesend,  conscious  of  having  missed  a  tide.  The 
denser  forest  of  tall  chimneys  had  been  left  behind,  and 
only  at  intervals  was  either  bank  disfigured  by  slow 
smoking  monuments  of  industry.  The  left  bank  lay  low 
and  dank,  while  to  the  right  the  watershed  of  Kent  began 
already  to  rise  in  tree-covered  slopes. 

"  Where  are  we  ?  "  asked  Miss  Winter,  with  a  certain 
determined  cheerfulness. 

It  was  Tyars  who  answered. 

"  We  have  passed  Greenwich  and  Woolwich  ;  over 
there  is  Plumstead  Marsh." 


Off !  347 

Miss  Winter  followed  the  direction  of  his  outstretched 
hand.  She  belonged  to  the  essentially  sedentary  circle 
of  the  West  End  of  London,  and  to  her  Woolwich  and 
Greenwich  were  merely  names  ;  the  one  connected  with 
an  arsenal,  the  other  with  a  bygone  custom  of  dining  on 
a  simple  little  fish.  To  her  such  names  as  Cubit  Town, 
Plumstead,  Rainham,  and  Purfleet  were  totally  unknown, 
There  was  a  little  silence  during  which  both  ladies  looked 
around  them  with  simulated  interest.  Tyars  seemed  to 
divine  an  unasked  question. 

"  Over  there  is  Gravesend.  It  is  just  behind  that  high 
land.  The  smoke  you  see  there  is  from  the  town  ;  we 
shall  be  there  in  an  hour,"  he  said. 

"  And  do  you  stop — anchor,  or  whatever  it  is  ?  "  in- 
quired Miss  Winter,  looking  away  from  Helen  with  an 
almost  noticeable  persistence. 

"  No — we  go  on — to  sea — to-night,"  Tyars  answered 
crisply,  with  a  quick  glance  in  the  direction  avoided  by 
Miss  Winter.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  at  his  interlo- 
cutress as  if  to  enjoy  the  triumph  of  having  baffled  her. 
For  a  moment  she  was  conscious  of  a  subtle  humiliation- 
she  felt  as  if  she  were  forming  part  of  a  victor's  triumphal 
procession.  The  next  instant  she  smiled  into  his  eyes. 
A  woman  rather  likes  the  degradation  of  being  overcome 
by  a  man  ;  it  keeps  up  her  healthy  respect  for  the  sex — 
a  respect  which  few  of  us  cultivate  with  conspicuous 
success. 

"  As  I  was  telling  Miss  Grace  before  lunch,"  continued 
Tyars,  before  the  pause  grew  irksome,  "you  will  not  see 
this  old  ship  again." 

"  So  Oswin  told  me.  You  both  speak  of  it  in  a  very 
heartless  way.  I  always  understood  that  sailors  were  so 
devoted  to  their  ships." 

"  Seems,"  said  Oswin,  "  rather  like  hiring  a  man  to 


348  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

save  your  life,  and  dismissing  him  with  a  shilling  extra  and 
a  smile  when  he  has  done  it." 

"  We  could  not  bring  the  ship  back  so  far  from  senti- 
mental motives,"  said  Tyars,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way ; 
and  he  spoke  with  that  hardness  which  is  only  found  in 
certain  ranges  of  society,  and  strange  to  say,  one  finds  it 
in  the  same  social  altitude  in  France  as  in  England.  Its 
chief  characteristic  is  negative,  for  it  conveys  a  subtle 
and  yet  flat  refusal  to  admit  that  there  is  anything  in  life 
worth  getting  flurried  about.  It  will  not  recognize  the 
existence  of  any  emotion  which  cannot  be  lived  down. 
And  yet  these  people,  educated  descendants  of  educated 
men  and  women,  are  just  those  who  know  how  to  suffer 
most.  Education  and  hereditary  refinement  are  the  seed 
and  hot-bed  of  that  sensibility  to  which  pain  can  be  most 
cruel.  This  is  no  doubt  only  another  illustration  of  that 
serene  adaptability  to  circumstances  which  characterizes 
the  workings  of  Nature  in  everything.  If  the  body  can 
adapt  itself,  if  one  eye  can  assume  the  responsibility  of 
two,  if  one  lung  can  do  its  fellow's  work  in  addition  to 
its  own,  why  should  not  the  heart  learn  to  adapt  itself  to 
new  emotions  ?  For  new  emotions  must  be  provided  ;  is 
there  not  a  quill-wielding  army  seeking  daily  for  them  ? 
And  these  new  emotions  bring  new  antidotes.  There  are 
many  cures  as  there  are  many  maladies  of  the  heart — the 
ridicule  cure,  the  cynicism  cure,  the  novelty  cure,  the  ex- 
citement cure,  but  surest  of  all  the  Irving  down.  As  in 
physical  diseases  there  are  certain  tough  hearts  to  which 
only  the  strongest  anticor  can  penetrate,  and  for  these  the 
living-down  cure  is  alone  effectual.  Claud  Tyars  was  just 
the  man  to  adopt  at  once  and  with  forethought  the  most 
stringent  measures.  In  this  he  only  followed  the  in- 
stincts of  the  class  of  which  he  was  an  unusually  per- 
fect specimen — the  hard-limbed  product  of  English  public 


Off !  349 

school  and  university.  If  one  takes  a  square  inch  of  bone 
from  the  leg  of  a  thoroughbred  horse  and  place  it  in  com- 
parison with  the  same  portion  taken  from  the  limb  of  a 
dray-horse,  the  magic  touch  of  breed  and  blood  can  be 
detected  at  once.  The  thoroughbred  bone  is  hard  and 
close  and  white  like  ivory  ;  the  other  is  gray  and  porous. 
So  is  it  with  human  hearts — that  of  the  man  or  woman 
descended  from  refined  and  educated  ancestors  is  purer 
and  whiter  and  more  delicate ;  but  it  is  also  harder. 
Claud  Tyars  was  no  doubt  a  hard-hearted  man,  else 
he  would  not  have  slipped  so  readily  into  the  post  of 
command  which  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him.  He  had 
a  strong  belief  in  the  subservience  of  the  emotions  to  con- 
venience. He  was  the  very  antitype  to  those  individuals 
who  fall  in  love  with  barmaids  or  run  amuck  among  the 
prejudices  of  their  relatives.  And  so,  after  all,  he  assisted 
Miss  Winter  and  Matthew  Mark  Easton  beyond  their  ex- 
pectation. Presently  he  left  the  group,  for  he  had  other 
duties  to  attend  to,  although  the  pilot  was  in  charge.  There 
was  no  confusion,  no  shouting  on  board  this  little  ship,  but 
all  went  smoothly  with  that  mixed  discipline  of  the  yacht 
and  the  man-of-war  which  Easton  had  commented  upon. 

The  moments  dwindled  on  with  the  slow,  dragging 
monotony  which  characterizes  latest  moments,  and 
makes  us  almost  impatient  to  see  the  last  of  faces  which 
we  shall  perhaps  never  look  upon  again.  Presently  the 
town  of  Gravesend  hove  in  sight,  and  all  on  the  quarter 
deck  of  the  Argo  gazed  at  it  as  they  might  have  gazed  on 
some  unknown  Eastern  city  after  traversing  the  desert. 
And  then  after  all — all  the  waiting,  the  preparation,  the 
counting  of  moments,  and  the  calculating  of  distances — the 
bell  in  the  engine-room  came  as  a  surprise.  There  was 
something  startling  in  the  clang  of  the  gong  as  the  engi- 
neer replied. 


350  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

Helen  was  the  last  to  rise.  She  stood  holding  the  shawl 
which  Oswin  had  spread  over  her  knees,  and  looked  round 
with  a  strange  intense  gaze.  There  are  moments  when 
the  human  brain  becomes  sensitized  like  a  photographer's 
dry  plate,  and  the  impressions  received  during  those  mo- 
ments are  clear,  distinct,  and  imperishable  like  a  finished 
photograph. 

The  steamer  was  now  drifting  slowly  on  the  tide  with 
resting  engines.  There  were  two  boats  rowing  towards 
her  from  Gravesend  Pier,  one  a  low,  green  painted  wherry 
for  the  pilot,  the  other  a  larger  boat  with  stained  and 
faded  red  cushions.  The  scene — the  torpid  yellow  river, 
the  sordid  town  and  low  riverside  warehouses — could 
scarce  have  been  exceeded  for  pure  unvarnished  dismal- 
ness. 

Already  the  steps  were  being  lowered.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments the  larger  boat  swung  alongside,  held  by  a  rope 
made  fast  in  the  forecastle  of  the  Argo.  A  general  move 
was  made  towards  the  rail.  Tyars  passed  out  on  to  the 
gangway,  where  he  stood  waiting  to  hand  the  ladies  into 
the  boat.  Helen  was  near  to  her  brother  ;  she  turned  to 
him  and  kissed  him  in  silence.  Then  she  went  to  the 
gangway.  There  was  a  little  pause,  and  for  a  moment 
Helen  and  Tyars  were  left  alone  at  the  foot  of  the  brass- 
bound  steps. 

"Good-by,"  said  Tyars. 

There  was  a  slight  prolongation  of  the  last  syllable  as 
if  he  had  something  else  to  say  ;  but  he  never  said  it, 
although  she  gave  him  time. 

"Good-by,"  she  answered  at  length,  and  she  too 
seemed  to  have  something  to  add  which  was  never  added. 

Then  she  stepped  lightly  into  the  boat  and  took  her 
place  on  the  faded  red  cushions. 

The  Argo  went  to  sea  that  night.     There  was  much  to 


Off !  35i 

do,  although  everything  seemed  to  be  in  its  place,  and 
every  man  appeared  to  know  his  duty.  It  thus  happened 
that  Tyars  and  Grace  had  not  a  moment  to  themselves 
until  well  on  into  the  night.  The  watch  was  set  at  eight 
o'clock.  For  a  moment  Tyars  paused  before  leaving  his 
chief  officer  alone  on  the  little  bridge. 

"  What  a  clever  fellow  Easton  is  !  "  he  said.  "  I  never 
recognized  it  until  this  afternoon." 

"  Um-m,"  returned  Oswin  Grace,  without  lowering  his 
glasses. 


352  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
A  HORRIBLE   TASK. 

THERE  are  many  people  who  go  through  life  without 
ever  knowing  what  it  is  to  fight  a  gale  of  wind.  Dwellers 
in  cities  know  indeed  that  the  wild  winds  blow  when  they 
hear  the  hum  of  strained  wires  overhead,  when  the  dust 
rises  in  whirls  at  every  street  corner,  when  the  sanitary  em- 
ployes have  difficulty  in  capturing  small  truant  paper-bags 
that  refuse  to  recognize  their  cart  or  power,  and  when  it 
is  really  inconvenient  to  wear  high  hats  and  light-minded 
skirts. 

Those  who  live  at  the  edge  of  the  sea  will  never  admit 
that  they  know  little  about  a  gale  of  wind,  when  at 
equinoctial  periods  their  windows  require  cleaning  every 
day,  when  face  and  hair  are  sticky  with  salt  rime,  and 
there  is  a  pleasant  sharpness  of  taste  on  either  lip.  Their 
gale  is  a  matter  of  staying  indoors,  of  avoiding  the  sea- 
wall, and  carefully  closing  all  windows.  The  sea  is  yel- 
low and  disturbed  ;  far  away  it  is  of  a  peculiar  light  green, 
like  dead  pea-pods,  and  from  its  bosom  there  arises  a  thin 
white  veil  of  spray,  and  there  is  no  perspective.  Sky  and 
water  meet  in  a  gray  uncertainty  a  short  way  beyond  the 
pier-head.  Occasionally  a  dripping  coaster,  some  close- 
reefed  brig  mayhap,  or  a  tiny  schooner,  moves  across  the 
near  horizon,  making  better  weather  of  it  than  one  would 
think. 

Sailors  of   course   have   the    monopoly   of  wind   and 


A  Horrible  Task.  353 

weather.  They  alone  are  competent  to  judge  whether  it 
be  a  whole  gale  or  half,  or  a  mere  capful  of  wind.  It  is 
their  trade  and  calling  to  tussle  with  the  elements.  And 
Boreas  is  their  chiefest  enemy ;  without  the  double 
warmth  of  oilskins  and  hope  I  think  there  would  be  very 
few  sailors. 

This  preliminary  leads  where  most  thin  and  watery 
pathways  do',  into  a  gale  of  wind,  and  such  a  gale  as  few 
mortals  ever  have  to  meet.  The  tropics  are  gifted  in  this 
way ;  there  have  you  cyclones,  typhoons,  tornados,  ara- 
cans,vuthans,  white  squalls  and  black  squalls,  northeasters, 
monsoons,  and  the  wild  changes  thereof.  Of  these  most 
of  us  must  perforce  judge  from  the  standpoint  of  our  own 
paltry  breezes,  our  bises,  our  siroccos  and  thin  south- 
westers,  our  mistrels  and  Danubian  squalls.  All  these 
long-named  winds  are  cruel,  but  killing  is  not  their  mis- 
sion. There  is,  however,  a  breath  of  heaven  of  which 
the  sole  message  is  death.  It  is  a  wind  with  no  fine- 
sounding  name,  for  it  belongs  to  the  North,  where  men 
endure  things  and  have  no  thought  of  naming  them.  It 
blows  for  six  months  of  the  year,  with  here'  and  there  a 
breathing  space  wherein  to  gather  fresh  impetuosity.  It 
veers  from  south-southwest  to  northwest-by-north,  and 
it  is  born  upon  the  gray  ice-fields  round  the  pole.  For 
many  hundred  miles  it  raves  across  the  frozen  ocean, 
gathering  deathly  coldness  at  every  league.  On  its 
shoulders  it  carries  tons  of  snow,  and  then  striking  land 
it  rages  and  tears,  howls,  moans,  and  screams  across 
Northern  Europe  into  far-frozen  Asia.  In  passing  it 
clothes  all  Russia  in  white,  and  still  has  plenty  to  spare 
for  bleak  Siberia,  Northern  China,  and  Japan.  I  have 
crouched  and  shivered  beneath  its  breath,  and  the  only 
thought  that  was  not  frozen  up  was  that  the  prevalence 
of  such  a  wind  must  assuredly  depopulate  any  land.  As 
23 


354  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

a  matter  of  fact  this  is  almost  the  case,  although  a  few 
northern  races  manage  to  live  on  in  such  numbers  as  to 
save  extermination,  and  that  is  all.  More  than  a  third  of 
them  are  partially  or  wholly  blind.  Their  existence  is  a 
constant  and  unequal  struggle  against  this  same  wind  and 
its  pitiless  auxiliaries — snow  and  frost.  The  earth  yields 
no  increase  here.  A  little  sparse  vegetation,  sufficient 
only  to  nourish  miserable  reindeer  and  a  few  horses ;  a 
scattering  of  pine-trees,  and  that  is  all.  Although  no 
sanctifying  Spirit  can  be  said  to  walk  upon  the  waters, 
the  sea  alone  sustains  life,  for  men,  dogs,  and  reindeer 
eat  fish,  not  dried  but  frozen,  when  they  can  get  it. 

It  was  across  this  country,  and  in  face  of  this  wind,  that 
a  party  of  men  and  women  made  their  way  in  the  late 
summer  five  years  ago.  By  late  summer  one  means  the 
first  fortnight  in  July  in  these  high  latitudes.  These 
travelers  were  twenty-one  in  number,  sixteen  men  and 
five  women.  One  woman  carried  a  baby — a  jail-bird 
— born  in  prison — unbaptized.  It  did  not  count,  not 
even  as  half  a  person,  to  any  one  except  its  mother. 
Men  and  women  were  dressed  alike  in  good  fur  cloth- 
ing, baggy  trousers  tucked  into  felt  boots,  long  blouse- 
like  fur  coats,  and  caps  with  ear-flaps  tied  down.  Boots, 
trousers,  coats,  and  even  caps  bore  signs  of  damage  by 
water.  When  Northern  Siberia  is  not  frozen  up  it  is  in  a 
state  of  flood,  and  traveling,  except  by  water,  is  almost 
impossible.  These  people  had  come  many  miles  by  this 
comparatively  easy  method  at  imminent  risk,  for  they  had 
traveled  north  on  the  bosom  of  the  flood.  Since  then  they 
had  literally  burnt  their  vessels  in  order  to  cut  off  pursuit. 

The  men  dragged  light  sledges,  three  to  a  sledge,  and 
four  resting.  The  women  carried  various  more  precious 
burdens,  delicate  instruments  such  as  compasses  and 
aneroids.  Beneath  the  fur  caps  throbbed  some  singular 


A  Horrible  Task.  355 

brains,  from  under  the  draggled  brims  looked  out  some 
strange  faces.  There  was  a  doctor  among  them,  two 
army  officers,  a  judge,  and  others  who  had  not  been  al- 
lowed time  to  become  anything,  for  they  were  exiled  while 
students. 

The  whole  party  pressed  forward  in  silence  with  tight- 
locked  lips  and  half-closed  eyes,  for  the  rushing  wind 
carried  a  fine  blinding  snow  before  it.  Only  one  person 
spoke  at  times.  It  was  the  woman  who  carried  the  baby, 
and  she  interlarded  her  inconsequent  remarks  with 
snatches  of  song  and  bursts  of  peculiar  cackling  laughter. 
Suddenly  she  sat  down  on  a  boulder. 

"  I  will  sit  here,"  she  said,  "  in  the  warm  sun." 

The  whole  party  stopped,  and  one  of  the  women  an- 
swered— 

"Come,  Anna,"  she  said,  "  we  cannot  wait  here." 
Still  speaking  she  took  her  arm  and  urged  her  to  rise. 

"  But,"  protested  she  who  had  been  addressed  as  Anna, 
"  where  is  the  picnic  to  be  ?  " 

"The  picnic,  Anna  Pavloski,"  said  a  small,  squarely- 
built  man,  coming  forward  and  speaking  in  a  wonderfully 
deep  and  harmonious  tone  of  voice,  "  is  to  be  held  farther 
on.  You  must  come  at  once." 

"  I  think,"  she  replied,  gently,  "  that  I  will  wait  here 
for  my  husband.  I  expect  him  home  from  the  office.  He 
will  bring  the  newspaper." 

They  were  all  grouped  round  the  woman  now  except 
one  man,  and  he  stood  apart  with  his  back  turned  towards 
them.  He  had  been  dragging  the  foremost  sledge,  and 
the  broad  band  of  the  trace  was  still  across  his  shoulders. 
He  had  been  leading  the  way,  and  seemed  in  some  subtle 
manner  to  be  recognized  as  chief  and  pioneer. 

Again  the  woman  who  had  first  spoken  persuaded ; 
again  the  broad-shouldered  man  spoke  in  his  commanding 


356  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

gentleness.  It  was,  however,  of  no  avail.  Then  after  a 
few  moments  of  painful  hesitation,  he  left  the  group  and 
went  to  where  the  leader  stood  alone. 

"  Pavloski,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  doctor."  He  never  turned  his  head,  but  stood, 
rigid  and  stern,  looking  straight  before  him,  scowling  with 
eyes  from  which  the  horror  would  now  never  fade,  into 
the  gray  hopeless  distance.  No  marble  statue  could 
reproduce  the  strong  cold  despair  that  breathed  in  every 
limb  and  feature. 

"  Something,"  said  the  doctor,  "  must  be  done.  We 
are  behind  our  time  already." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  my  duty  to  stay  with  you  ?  "  said 
Pavloski ;  "  I  cannot  leave  the  party  ?  I  cannot  stay 
behind  ?  " 

The  little  man  made  no  answer.  His  silence  was  more 
eloquent  than  any  words  could  have  been.  A  dramatic 
painter  could  scarcely  have  found  a  sadder  picture  than 
these  two  friends  who  dared  not  to  meet  each  other's 
eyes.  And  yet,  in  a  moment,  it  was  rendered  infinitely 
sadder  by  the  advent  of  a  third  person. 

Swathed  as  she  was  in  furs,  it  was  difficult  to  distin- 
guish that  this  was  a  woman  at  all,  and  yet  to  a  close 
observer  her  movements,  the  manner  in  which  she  set  her 
feet  upon  the  ground,  the  suggestion  of  graceful  curves  in 
limb  and  form,  betrayed  that  she  was  indeed  a  young  girl. 
Her  face  confirmed  it — gay  blue  eyes  and  a  rosebud  mouth, 
round  cheeks  delicately  tinted  despite  the  wild  wind,  and 
little  wisps  of  golden  hair  straggling  out  beneath  the 
ear  flaps,  and  gleaming  against  the  dusky  face. 

"I,"  said  this  little  woman,  "will  stay  with  her. 
Sergius,  I  will  try  and  take  her  back.  We  will  give  our- 
selves up.  It  does  not  matter.  Now  that  Hans  is  dead 
I  have  nothing  to  live  for.  I  have  no  husband." 


A  Horrible  Task.  357 

Poor  little  maiden,  she  had  never  had  a  husband  ;  the 
fatherly  Russian  Government  had  seen  to  that !  But  she 
chose  to  call  Hans  Onetcheff  her  husband.  This  same 
Onetcheff  had  been  administratively  exiled  by  mistake, 
and  being  delicate  had  died,  at  the  mines,  of  prison  con- 
sumption. 

The  little  doctor  winced.  He  was  not  a  Nihilist  at  all, 
and  never  had  been  ;  but  in  personal  appearance  he  had 
resembled  one.  There  was  something  horribly  real  in  the 
words  that  came  from  the  girl's  rosy  lips.  She  shouted 
them,  for  the  wind  was  so  furious  as  to  render  conversa- 
tion impossible  ;  and  in  order  to  make  herself  heard,  she 
raised  her  round  cherub-like  face  with  a  very  fascinating 
childishness  of  manner.  Sergius  Pavloski  shook  his  head 
and  moved  a  step  or  two  towards  the  group  half  hidden 
by  a  fine  driving  snow. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  We  arranged  it  before  leaving 
London.  There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done." 

The  doctor  and  the  girl  exchanged  a  look  of  horror,  and 
hesitated  to  follow  him. 

"  It  was  agreed,"  he  continued,  mechanically,  "that 
the  lives  of  all  were  never  to  be  endangered  for  the  sake 
of  one.  Tyars  said  that." 

Slowly  the  two  followed  him.  As  they  approached  the 
group  some  of  these  stepped  silently  back,  some  walked 
away  a  few  paces  and  stood  apart  with  averted  faces. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  saidthe  woman,  looking  up  suddenly, 
and  leaving  the  baby's  face  and  throat  fully  exposed  to 
the  cruel  wind,  "  whether  I  can  find  a  lodging  near  here?  " 

She  addressed  Pavloski,  who  was  standing  in  front  of 
her.  He  made  no  answer,  but  presently  turned  away 
with  a  convulsive  movement  of  lips  and  throat,  as  if  he 
were  swallowing  something  with  an  effort.  Then  he 
raised  his  voice,  and  addressing  his  companions  generally, 


358  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

he  said  with  the  assurance  of  a  man  placed  in  a  position 
to  exact  obedience — 

"  Will  you  all  go  on  ?  Keep  the  same  direction,  north- 
by-west  according  to  the  compass.  I  shall  catch  you  up 
before  evening." 

He  stood  quite  still,  like  a  man  hewn  out  of  stone — up- 
right, emotionless,  and  quite  determined — awaiting  the 
fulfilment  of  his  commands.  All  around  him  his  compan- 
ions waited.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  they  expected  the 
Almighty  to  interfere.  Even  to  those  who  have  tasted 
the  bitterest  cup  that  life  has  ever  brewed,  this  seemed 
too  cruel  to  be  true — too  horrid  !  And  the  wind  blew  all 
around  them,  tearing,  raging  on.  Some  of  them  staggered 
a  little,  but  none  made  a  movement  to  obey  the  command 
of  their  leader  ;  each  seemed  to  dread  setting  an  example 
to  the  others. 

At  last  one  man  had  the  courage  to  do  it.  It  was  he 
who  had  spoken  to  Pavloski,  the  man  whom  they  called 
doctor.  He  went  towards  one  of  the  sledges  and  pro- 
ceeded to  disentangle  the  traces  thrown  carelessly  down 
when  a  halt  had  been  called.  The  men  stepped  silently 
forward  and  drew  the  cords  across  their  shoulders. 

The  women  moved  away  first,  stepping  softly  on  the 
silent  snow,  and  like  phantoms  vanishing  in  the  mist  and 
windy  turmoil.  The  men  followed,  dragging  their  noise- 
less sledges.  The  doctor  stayed  behind  for  a  moment. 
When  the  others  were  out  of  earshot  he  went  towards 
Pavloski  and  laid  his  mittened  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Sergius,"  he  said  with  painful  hesitation,  "  let  me  do 
it — I  am  a  doctor — it  will  be  easier." 

Pavloski  turned  and  looked  at  the  speaker  in  a  stupid, 
bewildered  way,  as  if  the  language  used  were  unknown 
to  him.  Then  he  smiled  suddenly  in  a  sickening  way  ;  it 
was  like  a  cynical  smile  upon  the  face  of  the  dead. 


A  Horrible  Task.  359 

"  Go  !  "  he  said,  pointing  to  windward,  where  their 
companions  had  disappeared.  "  Go  with  them.  Let 
each  one  of  us  do  his  duty.  It  will  be  a  consolation  what- 
ever the  end  may  be." 

The  doctor  was  bound  in  honor  to  obey  this  man  in  all 
and  through  all.  He  obeyed  now,  and  left  Sergius  Pav- 
loski  alone  with  his  mad  wife  and  his  helpless  babe.  As  he 
moved  away  he  heard  the  woman  prattling  of  the  sun, 
and  the  birds,  and  the  flowers. 

He  turned  his  face  resolutely  northwards  and  pressed 
forward  into  the  icy  wind  ;  but  a  muffled  gurgling  shriek 
broke  down  his  strong  resolution.  Without  stopping,  he 
glanced  back  over  his  shoulder  with  a  gasp  of  horror. 
Sergius  Pavloski  was  kneeling  with  his  back  to  the  north  ; 
but  he  was  not  kneeling  on  the  snow,  for  the  doctor  saw 
two  furclad  arms  waving  convulsively,  and  between  the 
soles  of  Pavloski's  great  snow-boots  he  caught  sight  of 
two  other  feet  drawn  up  in  agony. 

"Good  God,"  exclaimed  the  man  aloud,  "forgive 
him  ! " 

And  with  bloodshot  eyes  and  haggard  lips  he  stumbled 
on,  not  heeding  where  he  set  his  feet.  He  fell,  and  rose 
agin,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did.  Despite  the  freezing 
wind,  the  perspiration  ran  down  his  face,  blinding  him. 
It  froze,  and  hung  in  little  icicles  on  his  moustache  and 
beard. 

"  Good  God,"  he  mumbled  again,  "forgive  him  !  " 

And  in  the  agony  of  his  strong  mind  his  brain  lost  all 
power  of  concentration.  His  lips  continued  to  frame 
those  four  words  over  and  over  and  over  again  until  they 
became  bereft  of  all  meaning,  and  lapsed  into  a  mere  rhyth- 
mic refrain,  keeping  time  with  the  swing  of  his  sturdy 
legs. 


360  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

ON  THE  NEVA. 

IT  is  a  thousand  pities  that  Englishmen,  Americans, 
Russians,  Scandinavians,  and  others  of  a  Northern  nation- 
ality are  so  difficult  to  write  about.  The  manner  in 
which  these  large  men  persistently  ignore  the  emotions, 
and  continuously  refuse  to  play  to  the  gallery,  as  it  were, 
simply  forces  the  astute  novelist  to  seek  material  elsewhere. 
And  so  we  have  the  Anglo-Italian,  the  Anglo-French,  the 
Anglo-South  American  novel.  They  are  so  picturesque, 
these  Giovannis,  and  Pippis,  and  Andres.  They  bubble 
over  so  conveniently  with  love  rhapsodies ;  they  are  so 
deft  with  their  knives ;  and  their  per  bacchos  and  sacres 
and  carrambas  look  so  well  in  italics — lending  a  local  color, 
you  know.  And  then  it  is  so  easy  to  know  what  they  are 
about,  because  they  are  so  frankly  emotional.  They  weep 
so  often,  and  usually  on  the  bosom  of  an  aged  mother,  or 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  "  Porta  del  Popolo,"  or  some 
other  porta  that  sounds  local  in  its  tendency ;  while  an 
honest  English  young  man  called  John  or  Andrew  never 
gives  one  a  chance.  One  cannot  make  obvious  to  the 
gallery  the  emotions  that  are  passing  within  his  breast, 
because  he  absolutely  refuses  to  gesticulate,  to  cast  him- 
self about  upon  the  furniture,  or  to  apostrophize  the 
heavens.  And  the  greater  portion  of  English-speaking 
novel  readers  is,  so  to  speak,  the  gallery. 

There  is  small  consolation  to  be  derived  from  that  self- 


On  the  Neva.  361 

complacency  born  of  a  conviction  that  virtue  is  sometimes 
unrewarded.  The  little  boy  who  tells  the  truth  generally 
has  a  bad  time,  while  the  small  follower  of  Ananias  walks 
in  the  sunshine  of  popularity.  We  do  not  generally  admit 
this  unfortunate  fact  in  mixed  circles  on  account  of  the 
children,  but  it  is  there  nevertheless.  And  the  children 
grow  up — some  of  them  alas  !  grow  up  into  novelists, 
others  into  felons.  The  seed  is  sown  in  the  one  as  in  the 
other,  and  neither  seem  capable  of  helping  it.  It  is  with 
the  novelists  that  we  have  to  do.  Young  Ananias  pos- 
sesses an  imagination,  and  he  proceeds  to  tell  most 
iniquitous  ...  No !  I  mean  he  goes  on  to  describe  men 
and  women,  who  not  only  have  never  lived,  but  to  whom 
life  would  be  impossible  in  this  matter-of-fact  planet.  He 
draws  lurid  pictures  of  adventure  in  countries  which  he 
has  only  seen  casually  on  the  map — he  describes  deeds  of 
bravery  and  feats  of  agility  which  any  common-sense 
person  must  recognize  at  once  as  quite  impossible.  Per- 
haps he  has  a  far-reaching,  an  unclean  mind  ;  he  proceeds 
to  wallow  in  realistic  details  which  are  not  only  sickening, 
but  totally  untrue  to  nature.  Never  mind !  Ananias 
gets  on  famously,  comes  out  in  weekly-parts  in  the  cheap 
newspapers,  and  finishes  up  in  a  yellow-back  novel  on 
the  railway  book-stalls,  depicting  the  murder  of  one  fault- 
lessly dressed  gentleman  by  another — an  every-day  occur- 
rence, of  course. 

Now  the  unpopular  good  boy  drones  away  his  time  in 
descriptions  of  events  that  really  happen  or  have  happened. 
He  sets  down  men  and  women  as  he  has  seen  and  known 
them,  he  narrates  their  deeds  in  such  language  as  he  com- 
mands, and  neglects  to  conjure  up  impossibilities  for  them 
to  perpetrate.  He  sacrifices  dramatic  construction  on  the 
altar  of  Truth,  and  fails  to  make  use  of  certain  well-known 
devices.  He  does  not,  for  instance,  cause  a  son  to  nar- 


362  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

rate  at  length  to  the  mother  whose  skirt  he  has  never  left 
the  sad  story  of  his  own  life  in  the  first  volume.  He  does 
not  make  husband  and  wife  exchange  terrible  confidences 
after  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  married  life — said  con- 
fidences being  of  such  a  nature  that  unless  they  had  hab- 
ited different  parts  of  the  globe  mutual  concealment  would 
have  been  quite  impossible.  No ;  this  blind  fictionist 
makes  his  fiction  possible  ;  he  tells  the  truth,  and  of  course 
he  is  unpopular. 

If  Matthew  Mark  Easton  had  arrived  in  St.  Petersburg 
in  any  other  manner  it  should  have  been  narrated  here. 
If  he  had  come  down  in  the  middle  of  the  Admiralty  gar- 
dens in  a  Nihilistic  balloon  in  the  dead  of  night  the  details  of 
his  descent  should  have  been  set  down  here.  If  he  had 
exchanged  mysterious  meaningless  paraphrases  with  pic- 
turesque conspirators  those  observations  should  have  been 
faithfully  given  here — in  italics.  But  he  did  none  of  these 
things.  He  merely  arrived  by  train  from  Libau,  and  took 
a  droschky  to  the  Hotel  de  France,  for  which  he  paid 
seventy  kopecks.  His  passport  was  in  perfect  order,  al- 
though smeared  most  lamentably  by  the  clerk  of  the 
Russian  consulate  who  vised  it  in  London.  This  small 
American  was  an  experienced  and  clever  traveler,  as 
most  of  his  countrymen  are,  and  was  as  much  at  home  in 
St.  Petersburg  as  he  might  have  been  in  Boston  or  London. 
Moreover,  he  had  been  in  St.  Petersburg  and  in  the  Hotel 
de  France  before.  His  nationality  was  also  in  those  days 
fraught  with  a  certain  weight  of  favorable  prejudice,  for 
that  was  three  years  ago,  before  the  Siberian  question 
had  attracted  transatlantic  attention. 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  therefore  made  himself  quite  at 
home  in  the  Hotel  de  France,  and  dined  very  comfortably 
at  the  table  d'kdte,  of  which  certain  small  eccentricities 
failed  to  surprise  him.  He  lighted  his  interprandial  cigar- 


On  the  Neva.  363 

ette  at  the  candle  placed  between  each  two  guests  for  the 
purpose,  and  fell  very  naturally  into  Slavonic  habits  ;  but 
it  is  perhaps  worth  noticing  that  he  somewhat  carefully 
concealed  his  knowledge  of  the  Russian  language.  This 
alone  was  proof  of  his  intimacy  with  the  internal  economy 
of  the  White  Empire ;  for  old  travelers  there  know  that 
it  is  better  to  reserve  one's  Russian  for  a  necessity,  even 
if  he  have  no  other  purpose  than  enjoyment  in  his  wander- 
ings. After  dinner  he  retired  to  his  room,  not  however 
without  being  forced  to  ward  off  several  singularly  leading 
questions  put  to  him  by  a  bland  landlord.  These  ques- 
tions were  obviously  of  one  and  the  same  purpose  ;  namely, 
to  discover  the  reason  of  Easton's  presence  in  Russia. 
Had  he  been  there  before?  Did  he  admire  the  town? 
Was  not  the  Newski  Prospect  unrivaled?  Where  was  he 
going  after  he  quitted  the  Northern  capital?  To  all  of 
these  Matthew  Mark  Easton  replid  vaguely  and  almost 
densely,  with  a  singularly  strong  American  accent.  He 
was  not  surprised  to  be  awakened  the  next  morning  by 
the  wildest  carillon  that  ever  pealed  from  cathedral  spire, 
for  he  had  heard  the  remarkable  performance  of  St. 
Michael's  bells  before. 

After  breakfast  he  wandered  forth,  guide-book  in  hand, 
having  refused  the  services  of  a  polyglot  individual  who 
professed  to  be  the  brother-in-law  of  the  hall-porter.  The 
landlord  himself  directed  Easton  to  the  Newski  Prospect, 
which  however  was  not  considered  interesting  until  the 
afternoon.  Nevertheless  he  went  that  way,  and  finally 
found  himself  on  the  English  quay.  He  crossed  the  Neva, 
still  in  the  same  tourist's  gait,  and  lost  himself  among  the 
smaller  commercial  streets  of  the  Vasili  Ostroff .  Presently 
by  the  merest  accident  he  found  himself  opposite  a  small 
warehouse  bearing  the  name  "  L.  Ogroff "  in  painted 
letters  above  the  blind  windows  of  what  had  once  been  a 


364  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

shop.  He  pushed  open  the  curtained  door,  and  addressing 
himself  to  a  pleasant-looking  girl  who  was  seated  at  a 
counter  adding  up  the  columns  of  a  ledger,  he  mentioned 
the  name  "  Lor  is  Ogroff." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl  in  perfect  English,  he  is  in. 
Who  are  you?  " 

"  Matthew  Mark  Easton." 

"  Ah  !     Come  in." 

She  pointed  to  a  little  swing-door  in  the  counter,  and 
did  not  offer  to  open  it  as  a  born  and  bred  servitor  would 
have  done.  Then  she  led  the  way  into  an  inner  room 
which  was  lined  with  shelves  containing  long  wooden 
boxes  like  miniature  coffins.  There  were  upon  the  table 
some  rolls  of  common  cloth. 

"Mr.  Ogroff  is  apparently  a  tailor,"  hazarded  Easton 
in  a  conversational  way,  seeing  that  the  girl  was  pretty 
and  pleasant-looking. 

"Yes, "she  answered,  with  a  short  laugh;  "  a  very 
cheap  one." 

She  had  not  relinquished  her  hold  of  the  door-handle, 
and  stood  in  a  graceful  attitude  looking  at  him  with  clear 
blue  eyes,  in  which  a  great  interest  and  a  slight  amuse- 
ment were  provokingly  mingled.  She  evidently  knew  all 
about  him,  and  her  attitude  physical  and  mental  was  no- 
tably devoid  of  that  shyness  or  embarrassment  which  is 
considered  correct  and  polite  between  young  persons  of 
opposite  sexes  who  meet  without  introduction. 

"He  is  up-stairs  in  the  cutting-out  room,"  she  con- 
tinued, with  a  twinkle  in  her  childish  eyes.  "  I  shall  tell 
him." 

Easton  stood  looking  at  the  curtained  door  after  she  had 
closed  it.  Then  he  picked  up  a  piece  of  rough  cloth  and 
examined  its  texture  critically. 

"  I  am  half  inclined,"  he  reflected  aloud,  "to  become  a 


On  the  Neva.  365 

Nihilist.  There  are  alleviations  even  in  the  lot  of  a  tailor's 
assistant  of  the  establishment  Ogroff." 

In  a  few  moments  the  door  opened  again,  and  a  stout 
man  entered  with  a  bow.  He  shook  hands  without  speak- 
ing, and  pointed  to  a  chair.  Round  his  thick  neck  he  wore 
a  yellow  tape-measure  with  the  two  ends  hanging  down 
in  front.  Before  speaking  he  took  up  some  rolls  of  cloth 
that  stood  in  the  corner,  and  unfolding  a  portion  of  each 
he  ranged  them  upon  the  table  in  front  of  Easton. 

We  last  saw  this  man  in  Easton's  rooms  in  London. 
His  name  was  not  mentioned  then,  because  there  was  not 
much  in  a  name  for  him.  It  was  not  Ogroff  then.  He 
was  not  minutely  described,  because  a  written  description 
is  not  always  of  great  value.  For  instance,  he  was  in 
London  a  dark  grizzled  man  with  a  beard — in  this  shop  in 
the  Vasili  Ostroff,  St.  Petersburg,  he  was  a  fair,  hairless 
man. 

"  Well?  "  he  said  asthmatically  at  length. 

"  Not  a  word  .  .  . !  "  replied  Easton  ;  "  and  you  ?  " 

The  man  shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders. 

"  Not  a  word.  I  have  written  to  you  all  that  I  heard. 
I  wrote  on  the  fifth  of  May ;  have  you  destroyed  the 
letter?" 

"Yes— burnt  it." 

"  Well !  "  ejaculated  the  Russian,  misusing  the  word. 
"  I  heard,"  he  continued, — "  never  mind  how — that  they 
all  got  away,  in  good  health,  at  the  proper  time — that  is, 
in  the  early  summer  of  the  year  before  last.  They  were 
followed,  but  they  destroyed  all  the  horses  and  boats  as 
they  went,  and  the  pursuit  was  necessarily  given  up." 

"  Since  that,"  inquired  Easton,  "  not  a  word?  " 

"Not  a  word." 

"  There  has  been  no  semi-official  account  of  the  matter 
in  the  newspapers? " 


366  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  No  ;  it  has  been  hushed  up.  The  official  report  is  (as 
far  as  I  can  learn)  that  certain  exiles  and  prisoners 
escaped  ;  that  they  were  pursued  by  Cossacks,  and  that 
the  chase  was  only  given  up  when  their  death  by  starva- 
tion was  a  moral  certainty." 

"  And,"  saidEaston,  "  are  they  struck  out  of  the  list?  " 

"Yes;  they  are  struck  out." 

The  fat  man  spoke  in  a  gasping  way,  and  his  breathing 
was  attended  by  a  peculiar  hollow  sound.  It  was  noticeable 
that  he  never  paused  to  think  before  replying  to  any 
question,  and  never  referred  to  notebook  or  written  mem- 
orandum. All  his  information  was  on  the  surface  ready 
for  use,  and  all  his  memoranda  were  mental.  One  cannot 
search  in  a  man's  mind  for  incriminating  evidence.  He 
who  at  present  passed  under  the  name  of  Loris  Ogroff  was 
known  among  his  colleagues  as  an  eminently  "safe" 
man. 

"  I  am  going  to  look  for  them,"  announced  Easton,  after 
a  pause. 

The  Russian  raised  his  flaxen  eyebrows. 

"  Ah  !  I  understood  that  you  were  condemned — by  the 
doctors." 

"  No,  not  condemned  ;  they  merely  said,  '  If  you  go  it 
will  kill  you.'  " 

"  And  still,"  said  the  Russian,  calmly,  "  you  go." 

"Some  one  must,"  answered  Easton  with  equal  cool- 
ness. "  You  cannot — you  are  too  f at !  " 

"  No  ;  I  do  not  travel  now  as  I  used.  Besides,  I  have 
other  work.  My  hands  are  full,  as  well  as  my  waist- 
coat." 

"lam  going  by  land,"  continued  the  American.  "I 
leave  Petersburg  to-morrow  morning." 

Ogroff  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  You  must  go  now,"  he  said.     "  You  have  been  here 


On  the  Neva.  367 

long  enough  ;  we  are  watched,  you  know.  Here  in 
Petersburg  we  all  watch  each  other.  I  will  send  you  a 
fur-lined  traveling  cloak  to-night  to  your  hotel — the  Hotel 
de  France,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Yes  ;  how  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  get  a  copy  of  each  day's  passport-returns  from  a 
friend  of  mine  in  the  police." 

"  But,"  protested  Easton,  "  I  do  not  want  a  fur  cloak." 

"  Never  matter ;  it  will  be  useful — you  can  give  it  away. 
It  is  to  allay  suspicion." 

"  All  right;  send  it." 

The  Russian  held  out  a  fat  white  hand. 

"  Good-by,  you  brave  American,"  he  said. 

"  G'by  !  "  returned  Easton  with  a  laugh. 


368  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THEY    TRIED  IT. 

"  WELL,  at  all  events  we  have  tried  it !  "  Ordinary 
words  if  it  please  you !  Ordinary  words  enough  in  all 
sooth,  and  words  we  must  all  make  use  of  sooner  or  later. 
But  all  words  are  ordinary,  and  it  is  only  the  manner  of 
speaking  them,  the  circumstances  in  which  they  are 
spoken,  and  the  person  to  hear,  that  lend  a  human  interest 
to  the  tritest  commonplaces. 

These  words  were  spoken  by  the  mere  remnant  of  a 
man  to  a  solitary  companion  while  both  looked  out — 
peered  through  the  twilight — on  death.  He  who  spoke 
crouched  in  a  singular  way  on  the  hard  snow,  supporting 
himself  on  one  fur-clad  arm.  He  could  not  stand,  for  he 
had  but  one  leg.  The  other  had  been  cut  off  just  above  the 
knee — a  recent  amputation  undoubtedly,  for  the  empty 
trouser-leg,  rudely  tied  with  rope,  was  stained  a  deep 
suggestive  color.  His  face  was  a  horrid  sight  to  look  upon, 
for  here  and  there  in  the  pasty  yellow  flesh  were  deep  in- 
dentations of  half-healed  sores,  the  result  of  frost-bite. 
One  eye  was  quite  closed  by  a  swelling  which  deformed 
the  features  and  drew  them  all  up.  He  spoke  in  a  mum- 
bling way,  as  if  his  tongue  were  swollen  or  diseased,  and  the 
language  was  the  most  dramatic  of  all  tongues — Russian. 

His  companion,  a  short,  thick-set  man,  stood  beside  him  ; 
but  he  stood  weakly,  and  the  terribly  sunken  lines  of  his 
cheeks  told  a  story  only  slightly  less  horrible  than  that 
depicted  by  the  face  and  form  of  the  cripple.  Both  faces 


They  Tried  It.  369 

alike  bore  that  strange  dry  look  which  tells  unerringly  of 
starvation.  All  who  were  in  Southern  India  at  the  time 
of  the  Madras  famine  know  that  look,  and  those  who  have 
never  seen  it  before  divine  its  meaning  at  once.  It  is  un- 
mistakable, like  an  earthquake. 

Behind  these  two  men  lay  a  vast  snow-clad  country, 
rolling  away  in  rounded  gray  curves  into  fathomless  mist. 
On  their  left  was  a  slight  declivity,  terminated  by  a  broad 
flat  valley,  extending  beyond  sight  jn  a  due  southerly 
direction.  This  was  the  river  Yana.  Within  a  few  yards 
of  the  two  men,  at  their  backs,  stood  a  rude,  ill-shapen 
hut,  built  clumsily  and  ignorantly  of  snow.  Its  low  door- 
way faced  the  north,  and  amidst  the  gloom  of  its  interior 
there  were  discernible  a  number  of  heaps,  apparently 
formed  of  old  and  tattered  fur  clothing.  These  were  dead 
men  ;  the  women  of  Sergius  Pavloski's  party  had  not  lived 
to  see  the  Arctic  Ocean.  Amidst  the  dead  the  living  had 
crouched  and  slept  that  dull,  dreamless  sleep  that  comes  to 
human  beings  in  extremely  cold  climates.  In  front  of  the 
two  men  extended  that  which  had  been  their  bourne,  their 
hope,  their  one  desire — the  Arctic  Ocean.  There  was  no 
water  visible,  but  as  far  as  the  eye  could  penetrate  a 
heaving,  surging  field  of  pack-ice.  Low  down  in  the  far 
northern  sky  there  hovered  a  yellow  shimmer — the  ice- 
blink. 

It  was  the  second  of  September,  and  in  all  probability 
the  ice  was  gathering  for  the  winter.  Already  it  ex- 
tended along  the  deserted  shore,  in  a  belt  twenty  miles 
deep,  without  a  lead,  and  from  the  continuous  sounds  of 
groaning  and  grinding  it  was  certain  that  more  was  press- 
ing in,  adding  confusion  to  the  frozen  chaos.  The  man 
who  stood  gave  a  short  heartrending  laugh  as  he  looked 
out  over  the  frozen  sea. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "  we  have  tried  it." 


370  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  cripple — Sergius  Pav- 
loski — spoke  again. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  almost  unintelligibly,  "  we  have 
failed  ;  but  still  our  failure  may  teach  others,  and  we  have 
kept  it  secret.  Those  who  want  to  know  will  never  know. 
They  will  always  be  in  uncertainty  as  to  whether  we  have 
escaped  and  are  living  hidden  in  America,  in  Europe,  per- 
haps in  Russia.  We  shall  be  more  terrible,  doctor,  dead 
than  alive." 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  I,  at  all  events,  shall  be,  for  you  say  that  I  could  not 
live  a  week  in  a  warm  climate.  This  leg  of  mine  is  less 
painful  to-day  ;  perhaps  it  is  healing." 

"  No,  Pavloski,  I  have  told  you  a  dozen  times  it  is  not 
healed,  it  is  only  frozen.  It  can  never  heal.  The  mo- 
ment it  thaws  you  will  die." 

A  sickly  smile  passed  across  his  unsightly  features,  and 
there  was  silence  for  a  time — the  deathly  expectant 
silence  of  the  far  North.  They  were  both  looking  out 
across  the  ice.  It  was  a  habit  they  had  acquired  during 
the  last  two  months.  At  length  Pavloski  raised  his 
mittened  hand  and  extended  it  outwards  true  north,  like 
the  needle  of  a  compass. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  mumbled,  "  if  Tyars  is  out  there." 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  "  why  you  entrusted  this  to  an 
Englishman." 

It  was  an  old  subject  thoroughly  thrashed  out  ;  an  old 
point  of  dissension.  When  men  see  death  staring  them 
in  the  face  they  are  not  conversational  on  general  topics  ; 
they  only  discuss  their  chances  of  life. 

"  If  I  had  had  the  whole  world  to  choose  from  I  should 
not  have  selected  another  man,"  said  Pavloski ;  "  but 
there  was  no  choice  in  the  matter." 


They  Tried  It.  371 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  doctor,  with  an  ill-concealed 
sneer,  "  that  he  has  turned  back." 

"  I  will  swear  by  St.  Paul  that  he  has  not  done  that !  " 

The  words  were  not  pleasant  to  hear  from  lips  already 
stiffening  in  anticipation  of  death. 

"  Then  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Dead  !  "  was  the  answer.  "  If  Claud  Tyars  had 
been  alive  he  would  have  come.  He  is  not  here,  there- 
fore he  is  dead  ! — Ough  !  " 

He  stopped  and  fell  back  fainting  with  pain.  In  his 
excitement  he  had  moved,  and  had  allowed  some  of  his 
weight  to  rest  upon  the  raw  stump  of  his  leg.  In  a  second 
the  doctor  was  kneeling  on  the  snow  beside  him,  raising 
his  head,  touching  his  lips  with  snow.  It  was  a  poor 
restorative,  but  there  was  nothing  else  at  hand.  One 
cannot  offer  to  a  dying  man  even  the  tenderest  piece  of 
an  old  sealskin  mitten. 

Without  waiting  for  consciousness  to  return  he  attempted 
to  lift  the  cripple,  intending  to  carry  him  within  the  little 
snow-hut,  but  the  movement  brought  back  Pavloski's  fail- 
ing senses,  and  he  shook  his  head  in  token  that  he  wished 
to  be  left  where  he  lay. 

"  No,"  he  said,  after  gasping  twice  for  breath  ;  "  I  would 
rather  die  out  here." 

The  doctor's  bare  hand  crept  within  the  tattered  sleeve 
towards  the  pulse.  He  said  nothing.  There  was  nothing 
to  say. 

"  I  do  not  want,"  continued  Pavloski,  brokenly,  "to 
see  their — faces.  I — broughtthem  here. — It  is  my  fault." 

He  lay  for  some  moments  with  his  lips  apart,  his  unin- 
jured eye  half  closed,  then  he  spoke  again. 

"  I  suppose — the  good  God — will  know  how  to  revenge 
all  this. — If  they,  the  Romanoffs — the  Czar — had  twenty 
lives,  and  we  could  take — them  all — we  might  pay — the 


372  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

debt ; — but  they  have — only  one  life — to  take,  that  would 
be  too  short — a  punishment.  God  will  know  how  to  do 
it— will  He  not,  doctor  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  sweet  deep  voice  of  the  doctor,  "  God 
will  know  how  to  do  it." 

"  Pray,"  said  the  dying  man,  "  pray  to  Him  to  do  it — 
well  !  " 

Then  his  head  fell  back  and  he  breathed  regularly  and 
softly.  But  this  was  not  the  end.  Presently  the  black- 
ened lips  began  to  move,  and  he  spoke  in  quite  a  different 
voice,  so  different  as  to  startle  his  listener.  It  was  soft 
and  even,  as  if  recounting  a  dream  not  long  dispelled. 

"  It  is  not  yet  a  year  ago,"  he  said.  "  There  were 
seven  of  us,  four  Russians,  two  Englishmen,  and  an 
American.  Four  Russians,  two  Englishmen  and  an 
American — what  a  strong  combination  !  The  Russians 
to  go  into  action  on  land,  the  Englishmen  on  the  sea,  and  the 
sharp-witted  American  to  watch  and  plot  and  scheme.  I 
remember  the  last  time  we  met  was  at  Easton's  house  ; 
we  ate  and  drank  together.  Two  of  us  are  dead,  and  1 
am  nearly — dead.  Tyars  and  Grace — where  can  they 
be  ?  They  are  out  there,  doctor,  in  front  of  us — to  the 
north.  I — I  shall  go  and  .  .  .  meet  them." 

The  lips  closed  with  a  sudden  snap,  and  the  doctor  leant 
eagerly  forward.  Sergius  Pavloski  was  dead.  Perhaps 
his  babbled  words  were  true.  He  said  that  he  would  go 
to  meet  them,  and  it  is  not  for  us  to  maintain  that  this 
was  the  mere  wandering  of  a  mind  harrassed  by  much 
affliction,  paralyzed  by  the  cold  touch  of  Death.  It  is  not 
for  us  to  assert  that  the  departing  soul  is  never  vouchsafed 
a  gleam  of  light,  of  that  Light  which  is  not  seen  on  land 
or  sea,  to  guide  it  upward  to  its  rest.  Perhaps,  indeed  he 
had  gone  to  meet  them,  to  find  these  two  Englishmen,  in 
whom  his  faith  had  never  wavered. 


They  Tried  It.  373 

Then  the  survivor  rose  to  his  feet.  It  had  begun  to 
snow  gently  and  in  large  flakes — a  snow  that  would  cover 
the  ground  to  the  depth  of  twelve  inches  in  half  that  num- 
ber of  hours.  As  it  fell  it  gradually  covered  the  dead  man, 
even  to  his  face  and  eyes,  which  were  already  cold. 

Presently  the  doctor  moved  a  little  and,  turning  slowly 
round,  scanned  the  near  horizon.  He  could  not  see  the 
pack  ice  now,  for  the  snow  was  blowing  in  from  the  north, 
wreathing  and  curling  as  it  came.  The  wind  had  dropped 
a  little,  and  so  the  ice  was  still,  and  its  groan  was  heard 
no  more.  The  silence  was  terrible — that  silence  that 
comes  between  two  squalls  at  sea.  Suddenly  the  snow 
ceased,  and  only  a  few  feathery  flakes  floated  aimlessly  in 
the  air.  The  atmosphere  cleared  and  displayed  to  the 
man's  dim  vision  a  lifeless  world  of  virgin  white.  Even 
the  footsteps  of  his  late  companion  and  himself  were  half 
obliterated ;  the  body  of  Sergius  Pavloski  was  covered, 
and  presented  the  appearance  of  a  churchyard  mound, 
for  the  snow  had  drifted  heavily  at  the  first  rush  of  the 
squall. 

Then  this  lone  man  moved  towards  the  snow-hut,  and 
entered  it  on  his  hands  and  knees.  He  took  no  notice  of 
the  dead — one  soon  gets  accustomed  to  them — but  fum- 
bled about  among  the  baggage  piled  up  in  one  corner. 

While  he  worked  he  mumbled  to  himself.  Probably 
he  was  only  half  conscious  of  his  actions,  as  men  are  in 
extreme  cold.  It  is  very  easy  to  sit  in  a  warm  room  and 
reflect  that  we  should  never  lose  our  heads  in  a  snow- 
storm ;  that  we  should  never  be  so  weak-minded  as  to 
give  way  to  that  dazed  drowsiness  which  comes  from 
snow  alone.  Fatigues  on  land  or  sea  have  their  charac- 
teristics, but  in  neither  case  is  the  brain  affected  as  it  is 
by  a  great  fatigue  borne  on  snow.  Mountaineers  know 
this,  and  the  good  brothers  of  St.  Bernard ;  they  know 


374  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

that  the  strongest  man  is  forced  to  use  his  utmost 
strength  of  mind  to  keep  serene  and  calm  while  battling 
on  snow  against  a  snowstorm  ;  whereas  an  ordinary  sailor- 
man,  of  no  great  courage,  can  face  a  gale  almost  unmoved. 

But  this  man's  bodily  strength  seemed  to  be  almost  un- 
impaired. He  dragged  the  heavy  sledges  aside  without  any 
great  effort.  He  had  been  and  was  still  a  man  of  ex- 
ceptional strength — broadly  built  upon  short  legs,  with  a 
large  square  head.  It  was  somewhat  singular  that  he 
should  be  apparently  far  from  death  while  his  compan- 
ions had  succumbed  to  cold  and  starvation ;  but  this  un- 
doubtedly lay  in  the  fact  that  he  was  a  doctor.  His  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  the  human  frame  had  doubtless  enabled 
him  to  take  a  greater  care  of  himself  than  he  could  force 
upon  his  companions.  He  had,  no  doubt,  been  strong 
enough  in  purpose  to  endure  a  hunger  which  his  dead 
comrades  had  satisfied  by  illegitimate  means.  This  is  no 
place  to  go  into  details,  for  these  pages  may  come  to  the 
eyes  of  many  who  will  be  no  wiser  and  no  better  for  learn- 
ing aught  of  death.  Indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  that 
any  of  us  are  in  any  way  benefited  by  a  study  of  this  sub- 
ject from  a  fictional  point  of  view.  We  meet  it  often 
enough  in  real  life. 

That  strange  law  which  we  call  Chance  has  one  singular 
trick ;  it  almost  invariably  sets  the  wrong  man  in  the 
wrong  place.  This  is,  of  course,  according  to  the  limit  of 
our  terrestrial  sight,  as  the  Scotch  ministers  so  frequently 
say  ;  though  it  would  be  hard  for  us  to  see  with  any  other 
sight,  so  the  rider  is  superfluous.  This  Russian  doctor  was 
an  instance  of  the  perverseness  of  Chance.  He  was  not  a 
Nihilist,  though  he  had  been  mistaken  for  one,  which,  as 
far  as  he  was  concerned,  came  to  the  same  thing.  He  was 
not  made  of  that  stuff  out  of  which  are  fashioned  lonely 
adventurers,  solitary  travelers,  or  self-sufficing  Stoics.  He 


They  Tried  It.  375 

was  merely  a  garrulous,  gregarious  little  fellow  with  a 
decided  bodily  tendency  to  stoutness,  which  tendency  had 
not  been  fairly  treated.  He  had  never  lived  alone — had 
never  thought  of  doing  such  a  thing.  What  a  man,  you 
will  say,  to  place  upon  the  edge  of  the  frozen  Arctic  Ocean 
with  no  human  life  within  a  radius  of  three  hundred  miles, 
in  the  month  of  September  !  Exactly  so.  But  that  is 
precisely  the  man  whom  Chance  would  select  to  place 
there.  Moreover,  she  made  that  selection — hence  this 
record.  From  among  those  iron-hearted,  desperate  fugi- 
tives, she  carefully  chose  the  wrong  man  to  be  last  survi- 
vor ;  for  there  is  no  such  thing  as  the  Survival  of  the 
Fittest,  though  we  write  it  with  the  capitalest  of  letters. 
Chance  sees  to  that. 

And  yet  in  a  dull,  stupid  way  he  realized  the  responsi- 
bilities of  his  position.  He  dragged  two  of  the  sledges  out 
of  the  hut,  and  with  a  hatchet  broke  them  up.  Then  he 
took  the  two  strongest  pieces  of  each — the  crossbars — and 
bound  them  securely  together,  thus  forming  a  rough  pole. 
This  heefected  on  a  .little  mound  where  the  snow  was 
thin,  building  it  up  with  such  debris  as  he  could  lay  his 
hands  upon.  It  stood  up  gauntly,  almost  the  only  object 
within  sight  that  was  not  white.  It  was  a  mere  pole, 
the  thickness  of  a  man's  wrist,  and  yet  it  was  probably 
visible  ten  miles  off  against  its  gleaming  surroundings. 

When  this  was  completed  there  was  nothing  left  for 
him  to  do.  There  was  no  record  to  be  preserved — no 
record  of  the  sufferings  and  of  the  great  struggle.  The 
earlier  acts  of  the  tragedy  were  lost,  and  no  earthly  lips 
left  to  tell  of  them.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter  ?  The 
last  act  wiped  them  all  out.  When  the  game  is  played 
there  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  the  recapitulation  of  its 
chances. 

The  lone  man  stood  back  and  contemplated  his  rude 


376  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

erection.  It  was  rough,  but  strong  enough  to  last  a  year 
or  two.  Then  he  looked  at  the  remains  of  the  light 
American  sledges  which  he  had  just  broken  up. 

Suddenly  an  idea  came  to  him. 

"It would  be  good,"  he  mumbled,  "to  be  warm  once 
more  .  .  .  just  once." 

And  he  piled  up  the  wood  in  a  little  heap.  He  crawled 
into  the  hut  and  presently  returned  bearing  a  good-sized 
tin  bottle  labeled  "  Spiritus."  He  poured  the  contents 
over  the  wood  and  struck  a  match.  In  a  moment  the  blue 
flames  leapt  up  and  the  wood  crackled.  He  crouched 
down  to  the  leeward  side  so  close  that  his  clothes  were 
singed  and  gave  forth  a  sharp  acrid  smell.  He  withdrew 
his  mittens  and  held  his  bare  scarred  hands  right  into  the 
flames. 

"Ah,"  he  muttered  in  a  gurgling  voice,  "that  is 
good!" 

But  it  did  not  last  long.  The  wood  was  light  and  very 
dry,  and  in  five  minutes  there  was  nothing  left  but  a  few 
smoldering  ashes. 

The  doctor  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  long  and  steadily 
out  to  the  north  over  the  broken  ice.  It  is  hard  to  give 
up  hope,  and  few  men  are  ever  forced  to  do  so.  Then  he 
looked  round  him  as  a  man  looks  round  a  room  before 
starting  on  a  long  journey  to  see  that  he  has  left  nothing 
undone.  He  had  lived  in  this  spot  for  more  than  two 
months,  and  its  bleak  surroundings  were  very  familiar  to 
him.  His  eyes  lingered  over  each  white  mound  and  hil- 
lock— not  lovingly,  for  it  was  horribly  dismal,  almost  too 
dismal  to  be  part  of  this  world  at  all. 

Strange  to  say  his  eyes  finished  their  inspection  by 
looking  up  to  heaven.  The  great  snow-clouds  were  roll- 
ing south,  bearing  in  their  huge  rounded  bosoms  the  white 
pall  to  cover  a  continent  for  many  months  to  come.  But 


They  Tried  It.  377 

this  man  seemed  to  be  looking  beyond  the  clouds,  seeking 
to  penetrate  the  dim  ether.  He  was  not  looking  at  the 
sky,  but  into  heaven.  At  last  he  gave  a  contemptuous 
little  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  full  of  a  terrible  meaning. 
The  next  moment  he  sought  for  something  in  the  inner 
pocket  of  his  fur  tunic.  There  was  a  gleam  of  dull  rusted 
metal,  and  he  raised  his  hand  towards  his  open  mouth. 
At  the  same  instant  a  sharp  report  broke  upon  that  echo- 
less  silence,  and  a  little  puff  of  white  smoke  was  borne 
southward  on  the  breeze. 


378  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

THREE  YEARS  AFTER. 

THERE  are  some  women  to  whom  even  Time  is  merciful. 
It  is  an  undeniable  truth  that  those  among  our  gentle  com- 
panions through  this  pilgrimage  who  are  fair  to  look  upon 
may  surely  count  upon  some  allowance  from  men  both 
young  and  old.  Charity  may  cover  a  multitude  of  sins — 
perhaps  it  does ;  I  cannot  say,  for  I  have  never  had  an 
opportunity  of  studying  its  habits  for  any  length  of  time. 
But  Beauty  undoubtedly  covers  more.  Not  only  have 
plain  women  to  bear  with  a  thousand  minute  slights  from 
every  pretty  face  they  meet,  but  if  they  be  observant 
they  will  realize  soon  enough  that  there  is  a  special  code 
of  laws  tacitly  allowed  to  the  owners  of  these  pretty 
faces.  They  have  no  need  to  be  scrupulous  ;  it  does  not 
matter  much  that  they  be  honest,  so  long  as  they  are 
gracious,  and  fascinating,  and  kind  at  intervals.  The 
necessity  of  working  for  their  own  livelihood  is  rarely 
forced  upon  them.  Beauty  in  distress  is  proverbially  sure 
of  relief.  But  there  is  one  enemy  upon  whom  all  charms 
are  lost,  to  whose  heart  red  lips,  soft  hands,  and  pleading 
eyes  cannot  reach.  This  enemy  is  Time.  It  is  not  only 
around  dull  eyes  that  he  scores  his  mark ;  he  touches 
rosy  cheeks  and  pale  alike  ;  he  sets  his  weight  upon  straight 
shoulders  as  on  crooked  bones.  But  some  there  are  to 
whom  he  is  kind,  and  these  are  usually  such  as  fear  him 
not.  Some  folks  are  said  to  defy  Time,  but  it  is  safer  to 
meet  him  with  a  fearless  smile,  for  he  is  not  to  be  defied. 


After  Three  Years.  379 

He  carries  more  in  his  hands  than  we  can  tell  or  dare  defy. 
Agnes  Winter  was  not  the  woman  to  make  this  mistake, 
and  Time  had  dealt  very  leniently  with  her.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  life,  or  at  its  end,  three  years  are  an  important 
period,  but  in  the  middle  of  existence  their  weight  is  less 
perceptible.  They  seemed  to  have  passed  very  lightly 
over  the  small  phase  of  existence  working  itself  out  un- 
heeded by  the  world  in  the  drawing-room  where  we  last 
saw  Agnes  Winter,  and  where  we  now  find  her  again. 

The  room  was  unchanged,  and  the  Agnes  Winter  dwell- 
ing therein  was  the  same  woman,  except  in  one  very  small 
matter.  She  had  always  been  distinguished  by  a  cheery 
repose  of  manner  which  was  not  without  its  sense  of  com- 
fort for  those  around  her  ;  by  its  presence  she  had  ac- 
quired the  reputation  of  being  very  capable  and  singu- 
larly tactful — the  sort  of  woman,  in  a  word,  whom  a  clever 
hostess  would  be  glad  to  secure  at  her  table.  This  charac- 
teristic had  given  place  to  a  certain  restlessness — a  well- 
concealed  restlessness  ;  but  still  it  was  there.  The  smile 
with  which  she  now  faced  that  grim  antagonist  Time  was 
not  quite  so  confident  as  of  yore.  Her  being  subtly  sug- 
gested one  who,  having  been  burnt,  respects  the  fire. 
Perhaps  this  change  was  more  noticeable  in  the  lady's 
eyes  than  in  her  person.  The  same  strong,  finished  grace 
attended  her  movements,  but  her  eyes  lacked  repose. 
They  were  the  eyes  of  one  who  has  waited  and  waited  in 
vain.  I  need  hardly  say  more,  for  we  all  meet  the  glance 
of  such  eyes  frequently  enough.  There  is  a  good  deal  of 
waiting  to  be  done  here  below,  and  most  of  it  is  vain.  None 
need  search  very  far  afield  to  find  such  eyes  as  now  looked 
up  nervously  towards  the  door  at  the  sound  of  the  large 
old-fashioned  bell,  pealing  in  the  basement. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  said  Agnes  Winter  to  herself.  "  Who 
can  that  be?" 


380  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

She  rose  and  set  one  or  two  things  in  order  about  the 
room,  and  after  glancing  at  the  clock,  stood  motionless 
with  her  tired  eyes  fixed  on  the  door,  listening  intently. 
The  bell  was  by  no  means  a  silent  member  of  its  frater- 
nity, and  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  its  peal,  although 
the  early  hour  precluded  the  possibility  of  visitors.  Miss 
Winter  had  therefore  no  special  reason  for  uneasiness, 
but  people  who  are  waiting  have  at  times  strange  forebod- 
ings. While  she  stood  there  the  door  was  opened,  and 
the  maid  announced — 

"  Mr.  Easton." 

Matthew  Mark  Easton  came  into  the  room  immediately 
afterwards.  He  shook  hands  rather  awkwardly,  as  one 
sees  a  man  go  through  the  ceremony  whose  fingers  are 
injured. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Winter  ?  "  he  said,  gravely, 
managing  to  spread  out  that  salutation  into  such  length 
that  the  door  was  perforce  closed  before  he  had  fin- 
ished. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  in  a  sharp,  unsteady  voice,  ignoring 
his  question  ;  "  what  news  have  you  ?  " 

As  he  laid  aside  his  hat  he  looked  round  almost  fur 
tively. 

"  I  have  no  news  of  the  ship,  Miss  Winter,"  he  re- 
plied. 

She  begged  him  by  a  courteous  gesture  of  the  hand  to 
take  a  chair,  and  seated  herself  beside  the  table  where 
her  work  and  books  lay  idle. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  "  what  you  have  done." 

He  came  forward  in  obedience  to  her  wish,  and  in  do- 
ing so  emerged  from  the  darker  side  of  the  room  into  the 
full  light  of  the  autumn  sun.  In  doing  this  he  uncon- 
sciously called  attention  to  his  own  personal  appearance. 
The  last  three  years  had  left  a  twofold  mark  on  him.  In 


After  Three  Years.  381 

face  he  was  an  older  man,  for  there  wefe  a  hundred 
minute  crow's-feet  round  his  eyes  ;  and  his  thin  cheeks, 
formerly  sallow,  now  brown  and  healthy,  were  drawn 
into  minute  downward-tending  lines  ;  added  to  this  was  a 
distinct  droop  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth  which  had  al- 
ways been  so  ready  to  smile.  The  meaning  of  it  all  was 
starvation,  or  at  the  best  a  lamentable  insufficiency  of 
nutriment  at  some  past  period.  In  his  form  and  carriage 
there  was  a  noticeable  improvement,  for  it  is  a  remarka- 
ble thing  that  the  eyes  and  face  bear  far  longer  the  marks 
and  results  of  starvation  than  the  body  that  was  starved. 
The  American  was  obviously  a  stronger  man  than  when 
Miss  Winter  had  last  seen  him ;  his  chest  was  broader, 
his  step  firmer,  and  his  glance  clearer. 

"  I  have,"  he  said,  "  explored  every  yard  of  the  coast 
from  the  North  Cape  to  the  Yana  river." 

"  And  why  did  you  stop  at  the  Yana  river  ?  "  asked 
the  lady,  with  an  air  of  knowing  her  ground. 

"  I  will  tell  you  afterwards,"  he  said  ;  "  when  Miss 
Grace  is  with  you — if — if  she  does  not  object  to  my 
presence." 

Miss  Winter  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  without  meeting  her  companion's 
glance  ;  "  she  will  like  to  see  you,  I  think.  I  will  send  a 
note  round  to  her  at  once." 

She  drew  writing  materials  towards  her  and  wrote — 
"  Mr.  Easton  is  here  ;  come  at  once."  She  read  it  aloud, 
and  ringing  the  bell,  despatched  the  note. 

"I  presume,"  said  Easton,  slowly,  "that  the  admiral 
is  still  with  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  is  alive  and  well." 

Easton  made  no  comment.  His  manner  was  charac- 
terized by  that  singular  repose  which  has  no  rest  in  it. 
He  looked  round  him,  noting  little  matters  with  a  certain 


382  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

accuracy  of  observation  as  people  do  when  they  stand  on 
the  brink  of  a  catastrophe.  The  lightness  of  touch  which 
had  previously  characterized  his  social  method  seemed 
now  to  have  left  him.  This  was  not  a  grave  man,  but  a 
light-hearted  man  rendered  grave  by  the  force  of  circum- 
stances. The  two  are  quite  apart.  The  presence  of  one 
in  a  room  is  conducive  to  restfulness  ;  the  other  is  a  dis- 
turbing element,  however  quiet  his  demeanor  may  be. 

Miss  Winter,  in  her  keener  feminine  sensibility,  was 
conscious  of  this  tension,  and  it  affected  her,  urging  her 
to  speak  at  the  cost  of  sense  or  sequence. 

"  Helen,"  she  said,  "  is  .  .  .  you  will  find  her  a  little 
changed." 

He  made  a  convulsive  little  movement  of  his  thin  lips, 
and  gasped  as  if  swallowing  something. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  uttered,  anxiously. 

"  Yes  ;  she  used  to  take  life  gravely,  and  now  .  .  ." 

"  And  now,  Miss  Winter  ?  " 

"  She  is  altered  in  that  respect — you  will  see." 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  her  face.  His  glance  was  as  quick 
as  ever,  but  his  eyes  did  not  twinkle  now ;  they  were 
grave,  and  the  rapidity  of  their  movement,  being  deprived 
of  brightness,  was  almost  furtive.  He  did  not  press  the 
question,  taking  her  last  remark  as  a  piece  of  advice,  as 
indeed  it  was  intended.  Then  they  sat  waiting,  until  the 
silence  became  oppressive.  Suddenly  Easton  spoke  with 
a  return  of  the  quaint  narrative  manner  which  she  remem- 
bered as  characteristic. 

"  One  evening,"  he  said,  "  as  we  were  steaming  down 
the  Baltic  last  week — a  dull  warm  evening,  Tuesday,  I 
guess — I  was  standing  at  the  stern-rail  with  my  arms 
beneath  my  chin  when  something  fell  upon  my  sleeve. 
I  looked  at  it  curiously,  for  I  had  not  seen  such  a  thing  for 
years.  It  was  a  tear — most  singular  !  I  feel  like  crying 


After  Three  Years.  383 

now,  Miss  Winter  ;  I  should  like  to  sit  down  on  that  low 
chair  in  the  corner  there  and — cry.  There  are  some  dis- 
appointments that  come  like  the  disappointments  of  child- 
hood— when  it  rained  on  one's  birthday  and  put  a  stop  to 
the  picnic." 

Miss  Winter  said  nothing.  She  merely  sat  in  her  gra- 
cious, attentive  attitude  and  looked  at  him  with  sympa- 
thetic eyes. 

"It  shows,"  he  continued,  presently,  "how  entirely 
one  may  be  mistaken  in  one's  own  destiny.  I  never 
should  have  considered  myself  to  be  the  sort  of  per- 
son into  whose  life  a  catastrophe  was  intended  to 
break." 

She  still  allowed  him  to  continue,  and  after  a  pause  he 
took  advantage  of  her  silence. 

"  Some  men,"  he  went  on,  "  expect  to  have  other  lives 
upon  their  conscience — military  officers,  ship-captains, 
engine-drivers — but  their  own  lives  are  more  or  less  at 
equal  stake,  and  the  risk  is  allowed  for  in  their  salary,  or 
is  supposed  to  be.  I  have  thirty  lives  set  down  on  the 
debit  side  of  my  account,  and  some  of  those  lives  are 
chips  off  my  own." 

"Thirty?"  questioned  Miss  Winter.  "There  were 
only  eighteen  men  on  board,  all  told." 

"Yes;  but  there  were  others.  I  shall  tell  you  when 
Miss  Grace  comes.  It  is  not  a  story  that  one  cares  to  re- 
late more  often  than  necessary." 

They  had  not  long  to  wait.  In  a  few  moments  they 
heard  the  sound  of  the  front-door  bell.  Easton  rose  from 
his  seat.  He  did  not  go  towards  the  door,  but  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  looking  rather  breathlessly  to- 
wards Miss  Winter.  She  it  was  who  moved  to  the  door 
and  opened  it,  going  out  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  to  meet 
Helen. 


384  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"  Dear,"  he  heard  her  say,  and  her  voice  was  smooth 
and  sweet,  "  Mr.  Easton  is  here  ;  he  has  come  back." 

There  was  no  answer,  and  a  moment  later  Helen  Grace 
stood  before  him.  As  he  took  the  hand  she  stretched  out 
to  him  with  an  air  almost  of  bravado,  he  saw  at  once  the 
difference  hinted  at  by  Miss  Winter.  It  lay  in  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face,  it  hovered  in  her  eyes,  and  yet  I  can- 
not describe  it.  I  can  only  lamely  set  it  forth  on  the 
chance  of  its  recognition  by  some  who  have  seen  it  in  the 
faces  around  them.  To  those  who  have  not  encountered 
it,  I  can  only  say  that  I  trust  they  never  will,  especially  in 
their  mirror.  It  was  not  recklessness,  for  educated  women 
are  rarely  reckless,  and  yet  it  savored  of  defiance — defiance 
of  something — perhaps  of  the  years  that  lay  ahead.  It  is 
to  be  seen  in  most  ball-rooms,  and  the  faces  carrying  it 
are  usually  beautiful.  The  striking  characteristic  of  such 
women  is  their  impregnability.  One  cannot  get  at  them. 
One  may  quarrel  with  them,  make  love  to  them,  put  them 
under  an  obligation,  and  never  know  them  better.  They 
may  be  sister,  friend,  even  wife,  and  yet  no  companion. 
That  effect  of  an  immovable  barrier  never  allows  itself  to 
be  forgotten.  And  if  you  meet  such  women,  though  you 
may  be  unable  to  define  it,  that  barrier  will  make  itself 
felt.  It  was  placed,  riveted,  dovetailed,  cemented  by  the 
Past — a  Past  in  which  you  had  no  part  whatever.  Such 
a  look  usually  goes  with  a  perfect  dress,  faultless  carriage, 
and  an  impeccable  savoir-faire.  And  Matthew  Mark  Easton 
recognized  it  at  once,  for  he  had  lived  and  moved  among 
such  women,  although  the  feminine  influence  in  his  home- 
life  had  been  small. 

"I  am  glad,  Miss  Grace,"  he  said,  "that  you  have 
done  me  the  honor  of  coming." 

And  she  smiled  exactly  as  he  expected — the  hard  in- 
scrutable "society  "  smile,  which  never  betrays,  and  is 


After  Three  Years.  385 

never  infectious.  She  did  not,  however,  trust  herself  so 
far  as  to  speak.  There  was  silence  for  a  moment — such  a 
silence  and  such  a  moment  as  leave  their  mark  upon  the 
entire  life.  Easton  breathed  hard.  He  had  no  doubt  at 
that  time  that  he  was  bringing  to  each  of  these  women 
news  of  the  man  she  loved. 
25 


386  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

SALVAGE. 

AT  last  he  resolutely  broke  the  silence. 

"  It  is  a  long  story,"  he  said.     "  Will  you  sit  down  ?  " 

Both  obeyed  him  so  mechanically  and  so  rapidly  that  he 
had  no  time  to  prepare  his  words,  and  he  hesitated. 

"I — I  have  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "that  there  is  no 
news  of  the  ship.  She  sailed  from  London  three  years 
and  seven  months  ago.  She  was  sighted  by  the  whaler 
Martin  on  the  third  of  May,  three  years  ago,  in  the  Green- 
land Sea,  since  when  there  is  no  word  of  her.  It  is  the 
opinion  of  all  the  experts  whom  I  have  consulted  that  the 
vessel  was  crushed  by  ice,  possibly  a  few  weeks  after  she 
was  sighted.  Her  crew  and  her  officers  have  perished." 

"  You  give  us,"  said  Miss  Winter,  "  the  opinions  of 
others.  What  is  your  own  ?  " 

"  Mine,"  he  said,  after  a  pause  ;  "  mine  is  the  same. 
There  is  no  reason  to  suppose — there  is  no  hope  what- 
ever." 

"  I  gave  that  up  two  years  ago,"  Helen  stated  simply. 

Easton  made  no  comment ;  but  presently  he  drew  from 
his  pockets  some  thin  books,  which  he  opened,  disclosing 
that  they  were  maps  and  charts. 

"  I  will,"  he  said,  "explain  to  you  the  theory.  Here 
where  this  date  is  written  is  the  spot  where  the  ship  was 
spoken  by  the  whaler.  She  was  sailing  in  this  direction. 
It  is  probable  that  she  passed  Spitzbergen  in  safety, 


Salvage.  387 

although  there  was  ice  as  far  south  as  this  thin  blue  line  ; 
this  1  have  since  ascertained.  After  passing  Spitzbergen 
they  would  keep  to  the  north.  I  take  it  that  at  this  spot 
they  entered  the  broken  ice,  and  in  all  probability  they 
were  beset.  There  were  at  the  beginning  of  June  four 
separate  gales  of  wind  from  the  southwest.  During  one 
or  other  of  those  gales  the  ship  was  possibly  crushed. 
Whether  the  crew  had  time  to  take  to  the  ice  and  land 
provisions  and  boats,  or  whether  it  was  sudden,  is  a 
matter  of  conjecture.  But  I  am  quite  certain  that  every 
effort  to  save  life,  everything  that  was  seamanlike  and 
courageous,  was  done.  It  failed.  We  have  all  failed. 
Never  was  so  complete  an  expedition  fitted  up.  The  offi- 
cers were  young,  but  they  were  good  men,  and  for  Arc- 
tic work  young  men  are  a  sine  qud  non.  What  they 
lacked  in  experience  of  ice-work  was  supplied  by  their 
subordinate  officers,  who  were  carefully  selected  men.  I 
can  only  add  that  I  am  truly  sorry  I  did  not  go  with  them. 
I  have  discovered  that  the  doctors  were  wrong.  I  could 
have  stood  the  work,  for  I  have  done  so  and  harder." 

He  paused,  bending  over  the  chart,  which  he  opened 
more  fully,  until  it  covered  the  whole  table.  He  seemed 
to  be  thinking  deeply,  or  perhaps  choosing  his  words. 
The  ladies  waited  for  him  to  continue. 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  "  that  all  this  is  conjecture  ; 
but  I  have  something  else  to  tell  you — something  which 
is  not  a  matter  of  conjecture.  But  first  I  must  ask  you 
to — assure  me — that  it  goes  no  further.  It  must  be  a 
secret  sacred  to  ourselves,  for  it  is  the  secret  of  two  men 
who — well,  who  know  more  than  we  do  now." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Miss  Winter. 

"  Of  course,"  echoed  Helen. 

He  went  on  at  once,  as  if  anxious  to  show  his  perfect 
reliance  in  their  discretion. 


388  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

"This  expedition,"  he  said,  "was  not  despatched  to 
discover  the  Northeast  passage.  It  had  quite  another 
purpose,  and  I  have  determined  that  in  justice  to  my  two 
friends  you  must  be  told.  But  Admiral  Grace  must  not 
know.  There  is  a  political  side  to  the  question  which 
would  render  his  position  untenable  if  he  knew.  At  pres- 
ent the  history  of  this  generation  is  not  yet  dry — it  is  like 
a  freshly-written  page,  and  one  cannot  yet  determine 
what  will  stand  out  upon  it  when  all  the  writing  is  equally 
developed.  But  there  is  a  huge  blot,  which  will  come  out 
very  blackly  in  the  hereafter.  When  this  century  is  his- 
tory all  the  world  will  wonder  why  Europe  was  so  blind  to 
the  internal  condition  of  its  greatest  country.  I  mean 
Russia.  It  is  not  far  from  England,  and  yet  we  know 
more  of  Russia  over  in  America  than  you  do  here.  It  is  a 
long  story,  and  we  are  only  at  the  beginning  of  it  yet ; 
but  there  can  only  be  one  end.  You  have  perhaps  heard 
of  the  Nihilists,  and  you  possibly  judge  them  by  their 
name.  You  possibly  think  that  they  are  atheists,  icono- 
clasts, miscreants.  They  are  none  of  these  things.  They 
are  merely  a  political  party.  They  are  a  party  of  men 
fighting  the  bravest  uphill  fight  that  has  been  attempted. 
Of  course  there  is  an  extreme  party,  the  Terrorists,  who 
driven  to  despair  by  heartless  cruelty,  thirsting  for  revenge, 
or  blindly  impatient  at  the  slowness  of  their  progress,  re- 
sort to  violent  measures.  But  the  Nihilists  must  no  more 
be  judged  from  the  Terrorist  examples  than  your  English 
Liberals  must  be  confounded  with  Radicals." 

Easton  had  left  the  table  where  the  charts  were  spread. 
As  he  spoke  he  moved  from  side  to  side  of  the  hearthrug, 
dragging  his  feet  through  the  worn  fur.  He  warmed  to 
his  work  as  he  pleaded  the  cause  for  which  he  had  labored 
so  hard,  and  it  must  be  remembered  that  his  diction  was 
quick,  almost  to  breathlessness, — the  rapid  speech  of  an 


Salvage.  389 

orator,  which  is  hardly  recognizable  when  set  down  in 
sober  black  and  white. 

"  These  men,"  he  continued,  "  have  received  singularly 
little  help  from  other  countries,  which  is  accounted  for  by 
the  fact  that  the  suppression  of  news  in  Russia  is  an  art. 
It  is  so  difficult  to  learn  the  truth  that  most  people  are 
content  with  the  falsehoods  disseminated  by  the  Govern- 
ment. But  it  is  a  singular  fact  that  all  who  have  studied 
the  question,  all  who  have  lived  in  Russia  and  know  any- 
thing whatever  of  the  country,  sympathize  fully  with  the 
Nihilists.  The  contest  is  quite  one-sided — between  intel- 
lect and  reckless  courage  on  the  one  hand,  and  brutal 
unreasoning  despotism  on  the  other." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  in  a  humbler 
tone,  as  if  deprecating  the  introduction  of  his  own  per- 
sonality into  this  great  question. 

"I,"  he  said,  "  have  given  half  my  life  to  this  ques- 
tion, and  Tyars — he  knew  a  lot  about  it.  Together  we 
worked  out  a  scheme  for  aiding  the  escape  of  a  number  of 
the  most  gifted  Nihilists — men  and  women — who  had  been 
exiled  to  Siberia,  who  were  dragging  out  a  miserable 
felon's  existence  at  the  mines  for  no  other  crime  than  the 
love  of  their  own  country.  Our  intention  was  not 
political,  it  was  humane.  We  did  not  wish  to  rescue  the 
Nihilists,  but  the  individuals,  that  they  might  live  in  com- 
parative happiness  in  America.  Tyars  and  I  clubbed  to- 
gether and  supplied  the  funds.  I  was  debarred  from 
going — forbidden  by  the  doctors — please  never  forget  that. 
But  Tyars  was  the  best  man  for  the  purpose  to  be  found 
anywhere,  and  his  subordinate  office,  Oswin  Grace,  was 
even  better  than  Tyars  in  his  position.  A  rendezvous 
was  fixed  at  the  mouth  of  the  Yana  river — here  on  the 
map — and  a  date  was  named.  Three  Russians  were  de- 
spatched from  London  to  aid  in  the  escape.  They  did 


39°  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

their  share.  The  party  arrived  at  the  spot  fixed,  but  the 
ship — the  Argo — never  reached  them.  I  have  been  there. 
I  have  seen  the  dead  bodies  of  nine  men — one  of  whom, 
Sergius  Pavloski,  I  knew — lying  there.  They  seemed 
to  be  waiting  for  the  great  Assize,  when  judgment  shall 
be  given.  I  was  quite  alone,  for  I  expected  to  find  some- 
thing, and  so  no  one  knows.  The  secret  is  quite  safe, 
for  the  keenest  official  in  Siberia  would  never  connect  the 
attempted  escape  of  a  number  of  Nihilists  with  the  despatch 
of  a  private  English  Arctic  expedition,  even  if  the  bodies 
are  ever  found.  There  were  no  records — I  searched." 

He  stopped  somewhat  suddenly,  with  a  jerk,  as  a  man 
stops  in  the  narration  of  something  which  has  left  an  in- 
effaceable pain  in  his  life.  After  a  little  pause  he  returned 
to  the  table  and  slowly  folded  the  ragged  maps.  The 
manner  in  which  he  did  so  betrayed  an  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  each  frayed  corner ;  but  the  movements  of  his 
fingers  were  stiff  and  awkward.  There  was  a  sugggestion 
of  consciousness  in  his  every  action  ;  his  manner  was 
almost  that  of  a  cripple  attempting  to  conceal  his  de- 
formity. Helen  was  watching  him. 

"  And  you,"  she  inquired  gently  ;  "  you  have  endured 
great  hardships  ?  " 

He  folded  the  maps  and  placed  them  in  the  breast- 
pocket of  his  coat. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  without  meeting  her  eyes,  "I 
have  had  a  bad  time  of  it." 

They  waited,  but  he  said  nothing  more.  That  was  the 
history  of  the  last  two  years.  Presently  Helen  Grace 
rose  to  go.  She  appeared  singularly  careless  of  details. 
Part  of  the  news  she  had  learnt  was  old,  the  remainder 
was  too  fresh  to  comment  upon.  She  kissed  Miss  Winter, 
shook  hands  with  Matthew  Mark  Easton,  and  quickly  left 
the  room.  Easton  did  not  sit  down  again.  He  walked  to 


Salvage.  391 

the  window,  and  standing  there  waited  till  Helen  Grace 
had  left  the  house,  then  he  watched  her  as  she  crossed 
the  road. 

"These  English  ladies,"  he  said,  reflecting  aloud,  "are 
wonderful.  They  are  like  very  fine  steel." 

When  he  turned  he  found  Miss  Winter  standing  beside 
the  empty  fireplace.  Her  attitude  was  scarcely  an  in- 
vitation for  him  to  prolong  his  visit,  such  as  might  have 
been  conveyed  by  the  resumption  of  a  seat. 

"That,"  he  said,  buttoning  his  coat  over  the  maps, 
"  is  why  I  did  not  go  farther  than  the  Yana  river." 

She  smiled  a  little  wearily. 

"It  was  a  wild  enterprise,"  she  said. 

"  I  should  like  to  try  it  again." 

"Then  it  was  not  impossible  ?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "it  was  not  impossible." 

She  reflected  for  some  moments. 

"  Then  why  did  it  not  succeed  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There  is  one  obstacle,"  ne  answered  at  length, 
choosing  his  words  with  an  unusual  deliberation,  "men- 
tioned casually  after  others  in  bills  of  lading,  policies  of 
insurance,  and  other  maritime  documents — '  the  hand  of 
God.'  I  surmise  this  was  that  Hand  .  .  .  and  I  admit 
that  it  is  heavy." 

"I  always  felt,"  said  Miss  Winter,  musingly,  "that 
something  was  being  concealed  from  us." 

"At  one  time  I  thought  you  knew  all  about  it." 

Miss  Winter  turned  and  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  You  once  warned  us  against  the  Russian  minister." 

She  thought  for  some  moments,  recalling  the  incident. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  length,  "I  remember.  It  was  the 
merest  accident.  I  suspected  nothing." 

"Concealment,"  pleaded  the  American,   "was  abso- 


3Q2  Prisoners  and  Captives. 

lutely  necessary.  It  made  no  difference  to  the  expedi- 
tion, neither  added  to  the  danger  nor  detracted  from  it. 
But  I  did  not  want  Miss  Grace  and  yourself  to  think  that 
these  two  men  had  thrown  away  their  lives  in  attempting 
such  a  futile  achievement  as  the  Northeast  passage. 
They  were  better  men  than  that." 

She  smiled  a  little  wearily. 

"  No  one  will  ever  suspect,"  she  said  ;  "for  even  now 
that  you  have  told  me  the  story  I  can  scarcely  realize  that 
it  is  true.  It  sounds  like  some  tale  of  bygone  days  ;  and 
yet  we  have  a  living  proof  that  it  is  all  true,  that  it  has 
all  happened." 

"  Helen  Grace  .  .  ."he  suggested. 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"  Of  course  you  knew." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  briefly. 

"  And  did  you  know  about  him  ?  " 

He  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  glanced  at  her  keenly. 

"  I  knew  that  he  loved  her,"  was  the  answer. 

She  had  never  resumed  her  seat,  and  he  took  her  atti- 
tude in  the  light  of  a  dismissal.  He  made  a  little  move- 
ment and  mechanically  examined  the  lining  of  his  hat. 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  in  England  ?  "  she  asked. 

"No;"  and  he  offered  her  his  hand;  "  I  am  going 
back  to  America  for  some  years,  at  all  events." 

They  shook  hands  and  he  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  When  you  come  back  to  England,"  she  said,  in  rather 
a  faint  voice,  "  will  you  come  and  see  me  ?  " 

He  turned  sharply. 

"  Do  you  mean  that,  Miss  Winter  ?  ' 

"  Yes." 

His  quick  dancing  glance  was  flitting  over  her  whole 
person. 

"  If  I  do  come,"   he  said,  with  a  sudden  relapse  into 


Salvage.  393 

Americanism,  "  I  surmise  it  will  be  to  tell  you  something 
else — something  I  thought  1  never  should  tell  you." 

She  stood  quite  still,  a  dignified,*  self-possessed  woman, 
but  never  raised  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  still  mean  it  ?  " 

She  gave  a  little  nod.  The  door-handle  rattled  in  his 
grasp,  as  if  his  hand  were  unsteady. 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  that  it  was  Oswin 
Grace." 

"No." 

"  Never  ?  "  he  inquired,  sharply. 

"  Never." 

"  Then  I  stay  in  England." 

And  he  closed  the  door  again. 

THE  END. 


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